The Art Room

Mary 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