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Moving Day 

Above my head, the marmalade cat

climbs an aubergine wall, peering

past bookshelves at photographs

and paintings of dogs, which in turn look down

on their likenesses; there are sunsets

splashing the Malvern Hills

that almost could be reproduced

by shifting gaze through the French windows.

Beside my parents' wedding cake,

Brylcreem, brooches and seamed stockings

have wandered into a Parisian street,

an arch of leaves in a gloomy lane 

that promises oblivion. Tomorrow

where these frames now stand, the walls

will be diseased by pallid spaces.

I'm overcome by an urgency to paint. 

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