We’re in the Tate, going to see the Blake’s,
Quick now, mind the mirage of Turner’s sons,
This man child is driving you on,
Imperfectly dressed we stop to rest.
Stairs assented, long figures back stopped be indigo,
Vision now, as word and line paint emotion divine,
We move together, as life slows in temporal streams,
The moment is coming, when you will go.
Angels of cubist forms loom forbidding in view,
Not rushing, but waiting,
Not knowing, but hoping,
This will be the last time dear father.
Outside, gazing at shadow stained stone marbles,
Our dripping footsteps stagger past coloured tree bark,
Making ode to the hunting of he Snark.
Crossing Vauxhall bridge as Valhalla burns. And now you depart.
Remembering My Farther – A funeral poem by Ben Spencer