Observations

Explosions of colour
In the monochromacity
Of the modern art room
At the Tate Britain
I sit and stare
As Titian hair atop
A riot of pink and green
Flounces past a
Barbara Hepworth
Pausing only to consider
Her own reflection
In a Modigliani
The shallow curves
Of a polished surface
Echo the movement
Of our livelier exhibits

A Late Liberal

Intrepid explorer
She’s set in her ways
And only those paths
We have trodden, she strays

No fan of convention
A mouthpiece for change
Well-meaning, she irks
Those unsocial and strange

Such genuine seekers
Of newfangled truth
Unsettle those given
To dissolute youth

And safe in their havens
Of yoga and crocs
Escape the unshaven,
Unwashable shocks

Her Intended

She set out to state
Though her marriage of late
Seemed as though it had hit on a rock

There were plenty more things
Still in scope of her dreams
So divorce needn’t come as a shock

Thus her offspring she sat
Minding this friend, or that
While she sought a new father-faced fib

Stepping out with a crew
Of the less well-to-do
Who could all see the cut of her jib

But no fellow she met
Could enchant her own set
So she one-by-one cast them aside

For intent in pursuit
Of less forbidding fruit
She, convinced the world must take her side

Simply would not see sense
When it came to pounds, pence
The result too important to count

To escape from her woes
Ignored any who chose
To point out how her theory panned out