Yesterday morning, <br />Monet <br />Must have had a meeting with his Maker: <br />The mother of all masterclasses <br />In Pointillism Perfection <br />Was being played out <br />Upon a December dawn <br />Hung between here and Heaven, <br />Framed by the ruggedness <br />Of the Vosges and Black Forest ridgelines. <br /> <br />Their palette awash <br />With violent purples, preternatural violets and marauding mauves, <br />Raging reds running the whole range of hues <br />From the palest pink to the blackest of blue-black royal bloods, <br />And golds: <br />Golds that glisten and glister only in realms of Glory, <br />The immortal pair painted upon <br />A cloud-canvas of cirrus and cumulus, <br />Leaving Light to stage-manage <br />The slowly-changing, mise-en-scène: <br />The Sun’s inclination <br />Altering the effect of the illumination <br />For the benefit of those yet a little lower than the angels. <br /> <br />God must have got hooked on the whole idea, <br />For today Turner’s hand clearly lay behind <br />The watery mists and limpid shades <br />Softly shrouding and muting <br />All figures and forms <br />And hinting at what might lie, <br />Lightly veiled from view, <br />Just a little further off <br />Behind the stroke of the brush. <br /> <br />We saw Monet and Turner’s <br />Work and pleasure <br />At the Paris Grand Palais, <br />But never did I expect <br />To see them at work <br />On my way to work <br />Taking turns on our slice of sky.<br /><br />Tony Jolley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/monet-morning/
