On Paint-pot Flinging

Brown and Gold, J.A.M.Whistler

His paint-pot, its crude oil
flung on golden skin
(that topped the dark garb
of elegance
fronting mid-brown grounds).
So, once, said Ruskin.

He had a big mahogany table to work
and prep his palette, tone by jigsaw tone.
He used a house-brush called Matthew

to sweep restraint out, onto taut canvas.
Long-handled brushes, that kept him a distance,
like cigarette-holders
fully loaded, brightening by the hour.

His interiors caught a four a.m. In the soul
a dark dawn that struggled to stay unlit,
for the quietened night of us to sleep as is

refusing the move to morning.
A reluctance in the walls, in some vague house.
The days progress sharpened by his fog.
Nothing casual for the eye that wants to see

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