Collage

for Sue McDougall

They are definitely

mountains. Torn edges

explain erosion, uplift,

crashing and banging

into the ones already

settled. Roughly mounted

and pale blood colour,

they invite fingering

yet linger untouchable

behind cold flat glass.

The artist was a collage.

Poetry, portraits, person -

you couldn't sit for her

without the verse of reason

turning your face to the brush.

Impasto? A hint. All

other depths described

as cold flat symmetry.

She has forgotten now

how she understood you.