Clouds in Winter

1
Constable saw no ugliness. In anything.
As long as there was light in the sky
he considered it redemption.

Today is the morning of Advent.
Misty and shivery.
The Metro headlines a royal Lady:
‘Where are you really from?’ she asks.

Her question curdles like cream
at the back of a fridge.

It’s cold on the platform.
The train is delayed and I’m stuck
on a crossword clue. A church bell
somewhere distant, peals for a while.

2
Paintings in the gallery
show no linear tales
only
people thinking.

One woman in a portrait
scowls at another who
with a cigarette
gestures away the smoke.

Elsewhere, in this museum
built on sugar, a cavalcade
of mannequins
is sumptuous, silent
in Caribbean robes.

Pearls drip from lips like vomit.

Eyeballs behind a golden mask
glisten and glare.

Mandy Pannett

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