On My Wall Hangs a Chinese Panel.

It is a strange country they live in,
Ivory black, with a white moon sinking
Below the shoreline of a gilded island.

And yet these two girls are entirely visible,
Not lost in the depths of their polished black
homeland
That reflects my gaze like an unforgiving
                                                        mirror.
These two girls seem to illuminate themselves
As though from an inner, innate brightness,
Like lauded film stars on a sunlit beach;

Except, this is not somewhere on the French
                                                            Rivera
 At the height of the hot line, photo call season,
Champagne corks popping, photographers barging
through starstruck holyday crowds.
It is Imperial China, the date indecipherable,
The Dynasty unknown, the culture refined,
The girls, in Court Dress, demure, still as the Buddha;
Two butterflies balanced on the edge of time;

Or is it timelessness, I cannot really tell,
Because the sky, the sea, the land do not
                                                         exist
In a format that is realistic and clearly logical
To my irreverent western gaze.

A framed wooden panel painted black
Represents the land, the sky, the sea
In which the gilded island floats
Above the heads of the delicate girls;

And below their feet, a second moon rises,
                                for no apparent reason.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 18th. - 28th. 2017.