New Poetry- Arthur Broomfield
The return of the artist
It was that kind of a once-in-a-lifetime
snow and hailstones day
so dreamed of by smug artists and Yale dons,
dendrological in a buns and sofa way:
King David on his throne,
Bathsheba pouring goat curd and curses
over the scone mix,
when the garlic guest strolled in,
carrying his masterpiece on a head
[true to his training],
the snow and slurry from his mosaic boots
beguiling the Axminister with rocks of ages.
“My ship is waiting at Giza”,
“the clouds are...