The Fire
The fire
He stood in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water
looking out of the window, he saw across the fjord on the slopes
to the blue mountain the had snow on top, a farm house burning
bright in the long spring afternoon.
Putting his glass down and when looking again the fire had stopped
by itself, instead a milk-maid came out of the barn, carrying
a stainless bucket in her strong hand and he thought of Paula Rego
the great Portuguese artist, her women were strongly built, had
strong arms with lust in faces, not so much beauty but very human
His favorite painting is of a daughter polishing her father's boots
the love in her face shines through glossy as the boots.
Mind, the art center has a cafe and sells exceedingly good cakes.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
