The Art Room

Marry O’Donnell
In early June, all that remains
are puppets and forgotten dolls, Punch and Judy slouch on a shelf,
doll monks and nuns are sharp-faced demons in flailing serge; in an open window,
the Three Wise Men wear swathes of red, all wisdom to the winds
as a butterfly wavers by.
A place of stick figures,
papier mache faces,
the bright folly of discovery in shaky swirls of yellow,
spatters of purple and green ... And in one corner, the portrait of a glrl, the brush-stroke of some tender technician who yet must learn the flagrant daubs, exotic trials of colour
on the hot palette of days.
Page 28, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 26