The Muse


The Muse (The Inner Voice), by Auguste Rodin, Victoria and Albert Museum, London

He made you look a little
head heavily hanging,
legs and hips, angular,
back, twisted.
And eyes closed.

He has made you 
and difficult.

I know you somewhat
You are the merriment
in what I see,
the fleeting idea
touching my mind,
the recurring image
nudging me:-
'This is important.
Attend to this.'

Your nearness is
wispy as thistledown on the breeze,
passing as the morning dew,
light as an angel's breath
touching my soul.


2 thoughts on “The Muse

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