Mediterranean after Nicolas De Staël Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

I
There are paintings I admire
for their simplicity and directness —
geometric squares and oblongs,
abstract cityscapes, in primary colours,
skylines without contrails.
Urban blocks like cereal boxes,
the hands that held the spoon now contort an empty bowl.

II
But here's another take,
still standing here, wrestling with my lack of attention —
Mediterranean blue, from the same era.
Hotel blocks, or are they
seaside houses and swimming pools —
or is it the coastline?

III
The palette knife puts down slabs of paint,
light, space, heat shimmering into abstraction,
my attention slipping into memory —
my 60th birthday, Portugal, the world
melting like an iced cake,
candles still lit, still smoking,
where I drift in thoughts of holidays,
past and present, and yet to come.

IV
Only the held breath of standing still,
eyes fixed while the room moves past me,
arrives on the canvas that never looks dry
but always fresh —
your face cracking like a lead mirror beneath a frozen tear,
for a single outline of a smile, rubbed out years before,
the people and faces you cared for,
who you'll never set eyes on again.