I think the sky looks best when it reminds
you of Hogarth or other of those 18th century paintings
with dark, tight clusters of small leaves
which scalpol and sillouette
against the powdery blue and creamy spaces
I imagine that I look down at my feet
and see satin shoes,
shimmery and slightly scraped apart at the seams.
The kind of shoes that would
look at home places by deep eggshell blue skirting boards
and bare floors
and light faded crimson rugs. Spindly legged furniture
accompanied by sounds of stiffened hand-sewn
dress skirts grazing the floor like a wedding march
Instead, I feel the cold and dry breeze
pass by my skin and into my lungs
and stomach and every other *****
or miniature tree branch vessel.

I think about what the Landscape would have
looked like three or four hundred years ago,
because it couldn't have looked like this
Now, I realise that like those paintings, this
sky, breeze, leaves and trees are merely an
impression
Not familiar enough or filled with enough bleached light

I would like to think that in another three
or four hundred years others will be breathing
a similar cocktail of air and pollution reminiscent of mine
and provoke some similar feeling

They might visit clothes like the ones I wore
In Museum basements they will be categorised in brown paper boxes
encapsulated in white tissue paper
labels hanging from under the lips of box lids
pencil marks indicating contents.