Epilogue



Jolie Laide

There she hangs, his masterpiece and her own,

Immortalised in paint, painted over until,

A finished moment masks all that went before.


This Jolie Laide, new illusion of truth,

breaks the old mirror of imagined beauty and,

Up rise a confluence of feelings


As we stand before it.

What she had been

  I was a gate on a path with no fences either side, A strange anomaly, Anachronistic ?  perhaps a little, A small inconvenience to some, A ...