FridayII September

GAUGIN'S DAUGHTER

So this is what it is like to be Gaugin's daughter?
Standing in my dad's old hut.
Feet aching from the hot, stony path.
Leather sandals slippy with sweat.
Surprised heart sitting birdlike in my chest.
Turpine still tarts the air.
Tahitian dust motes, float on splintered light.
He trailed paint across the wall.
Painting dreams onto the wood,
Fevered dreams the colour of humidity, whisky, women and ambition.
I can trace the figure of a man.
Pictures tacked to the wall are totamic swarms.
A cowshed and some early cubists.
Impressions of his salon favourites:
Smiling ladies on red;
Eyes undisturbed lakes, in tiny white bodies.
Paris to Tahiti in a brush stroke.