It’s her breasts and not so much her eyes that draw him in
though if he were a better man – he reasons –
he would lose himself in those shimmery amber orbs
and not linger on those pale rising breasts
or the autumnal hair
cascading over her left shoulder like a living thing
a possessive sable coveting one perfect pink nipple.
She looks peaceful almost content in that thick skirted
She reminds him of an exotic flower – resplendent –
on a hard chair the colour of walnuts.
A warm light lingers in the background
a little fogged but nevertheless encompassing.
He knows little if anything about her
although it is said, she was the artist’s first wife
taken by a plague before reaching adulthood.
He’ll keep returning until he feels he sees her
but in truth she is hiding in that ambient room
under layers of pigment.