I first see them from a distance

Nine is the number I favour—

even focused how my mind wanders—

Three pink marble casts of women

and one Other in front

Three Ages

is three all we have I wonder

And if so in which age do I now occupy (Oh, I think I know)

standing while looking through the arch?

The room is quiet

its occupants art from the gifted whose

names I mostly until today have not known

Yes— the security guard breathes here with me

but he too is art

Still and quiet, occupying a

controlled temperature (and mannered) corner

A high seated black chair

I am movement, looking

Gliding Ghost passing through

I linger here for the sculptures—

Woman: Chrysalis for puberty

Coquetry for youth

Pomegranate Flower for maturity

The artist is Inurria, do you know him?

Resting on his side, though ‘resting’

fails to accurately describe the desperation

etched into the figure’s face,

is Castaway, agony and fear holding to the remains

of a ship’s mast

The faces of the Women are serene

placid cool

Or confident

How interpretation

How knowledge or pretence of it

How Art

How expression and experience

alters us

Shifts and realigns our consideration going forward

My eyes scan the works of others

These rooms are Many

but I see again and again the Woman

the Women in pink marble

and the one Man in peril clinging to safety

naked

I carry them with me through the heavy glass doors

of the gallery

Into the blinding sunlight

of the public street🪶