Like a flying star

The books neatly arranged

Are only a dust trap to the obsessive cleaner

Less use than toilet paper

Infinite dreaming worlds

While to the artist they contain

That  now few of us have time for

Fearing the loss of drowning eyes

In the colour of Impressionist dots

And Van Gogh’s fields,

Blues Picassos

More divine than grace

Lose yourself then rise

As Christ did

And shoot like a flying star

Into the joys of heaven