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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