One of my favourite spots in North London is Kenwood House, home to a marvelous tea shop and an even better collection of fine art. Among the jewels of the collection are two paintings, one by Rembrandt and one by Vermeer. The Rembrandt is a late self-portrait, brooding and disheveled. The Vermeer is youthful and filled with his particular gift of inner light. Across a single room, the old man and the young woman have watched each other for years. I wrote this rather loose-limbed triolet in their memory.
Kenwood House
The woman playing the guitar would smile
softly at the dark-dressed man who held brushes like keys.
There in the sunroom, I would come to stand quietly while
the woman playing the guitar would smile
luminous, radiant, knowing she was being watched, to beguile
the painter opposite – keeping her innocence across the centuries
the woman playing the guitar would smile
softly at the dark-dressed man who held brushes like keys.
Penguin Poems 