Bonnard

This winter Bonnards were to come to us

His windows onto golden firmament

Adding colour to colour incidents

Leafing unleafing speckled and lustrous.

In town, passers-by swanning and milling

Fill Paris with shapes alive and so close.

To forget a short while corona’s dose

Has shut down the galleries, unwilling,

Lately, I’ve been going to the Bonnards

Large in picture books, their pages flapping:

He, mirrored in a palette of shades won hard,

And his wife who lives inside, in bath wash

His blues tide over sluicing and slapping

Her languid contours, her hair, her soft flesh.