I catch a glimpse of
Gainsborough’s knee.
Brush and palette
above it stand
floating.
Protruding.
A man at war,
with gun to kill –
half-cocked –
not ready.
He hesitates a while –
allows other men
to do the job
in hand.
He watches, thinks, but
feels unable to run.
Feet frozen,
tailcoat stuck.
Committed.
Obedient.
Recording the
years passing.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 