Abstract? Poem by Richard Blanch

Moving in measured fashion, a guest
Uninvited, it ranges painted distance,
Hovers, in a drifting, purposeful dance
Quite at leisure. But make no mistake: its quest

Is certain. Knowing so scrapes at my rest
As if death were there, caught by a passing glance
Half hidden in pigment, as if by chance
The artist too had a secret, unconfessed,

Unknown even to himself, something strange,
Disturbing, wonderful, set to disappoint,
Fulfil - of course quite ready to pretend,
Feather light, it resists efforts to arrange
Life even around its vanishing point,
Look away in vain. It pursues to the end.