Comments about Anthony Fry
Vagaries of light in her garden, perpetually transfiguring.
Water lilies are lazily laying open, in golden sun rays.
Overwhelming fragrances, escape from espaliers of roses.
Those yellow buttercups, reflecting in those big blue eyes.
A young maiden dwells all alone, confused at her window.
Clasping her Grandmas locket, a sepia picture lays within.