— Pushpa MacFarlane
A masterpiece—this painting of a garden
with sleek brushes bursting forth—
plumes of purple fountain grass against a backdrop
of bleached brickwork bolstered by oblique shadows
cast by receding sunlight in the late winter afternoon
when details are still clear.
Rainbow specks crest on the silver flurries,
like lavender-tinted tips on feathery down
of some silver bird in fine purple herringbone,
and filled-in satin stitch.
Clusters of green-stemmed spikes and pale yellow
shoot out like straws from a long cool drink
at the soda fountain. A quick sketch of long lines
radiating upward from the cluster—a deft artistic
Daylight recedes. Evening descends, as curtains do
at the close of the show when spirited encores
abound in the audience. Breathtaking.
Somewhere, someone switches on
the incandescent light—
The stretch of bleached brickwork transforms,
replaced by a jaggedly-quarried brown stone wall.
A fireplace looms in the distance—prosaic, perfunctory,
no optical phenomenon.
The painting is the garden outside, still visible
by day as seen through the glass windowpane.
And the brushwork, still luminescent,