nothing here
gives much away
but a print
of chrysanthemums
by claude monet
surprises me
in this cafe
a clutch of women
console each other
his brush
snatches light
to express it in colour
the speech of the women
old yarn
stuck
in the weave of time
his signature
of bold carmine
only an eye
by god
but what an eye
just let him try
then he’ll see
he'll see
the woman carrying
a scar too monstrous
to rescind
to ease her suffering
the women share feelings
the flowers meet themselves
in a pool of being
until at last,
given sight
they are speaking