Three Poems

Capriccio on Departures

I believe in painting from the heart, except with me
there’s nothing there. No colour, no shape. It’s empty –
unless I fake it and make a handkerchief to signify
the times I’ve waved goodbye – a white square
without trim (any lace might cost the lace-maker
her sight if she tatted in too dim a light.)
It’s fine for the hem to be plain as long as the hanky
might have taken part in a woman’s farewell to
her mate. Mind you, I didn’t find this symbol in
my heart but in lines by a symbolist poet.
(Like most elderly people, I remember stuff
I studied in a college whose name escapes me.)

The hanky and goodbyes derive from Mallarmé,
a poet so well-named he proved ill-armed
against the sorrow in his heart as he began
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