Muse

For Manchester Museum

When first I came to you

Monstrous bones,

And birds whose span

Was larger than I stood

Were all I knew.

I could not pass

The stoic guardian

At the top of the stairs.

His big hands and spider legs,

Twitching just out of my sight.

Forbidding the snakes and toads

To me for too long.

Later, school trips brought me caskets,

Armour, pikes and muskets,

And of course, the thrill of mummies,

Cats and crocodiles in cases,

Filled with so many

Wonderful things.

Then, much later, tiring of pretension,

Foundation weary,

I returned to paint the birds,

Marvelling anew at their variety,

Finding all those feathers,

Still bright if dusty,

Still fine if faded and tattered,

Hiding in crowded corners,

Perching pertly on branches and

Flocking across maps and displays.

Staying past my project,

Meeting crocodiles of schoolchildren;

Are you an artist, miss?

And for the first time, I was.

I felt my art stir beneath my fingers,

Like the wind once had beneath

Those long-stilled wings.

And I breathed life into little watercolours,

Sitting silently in that multicoloured mausoleum,

Amongst the scent of polished wood and dust,

And forgotten pine forests,

In the half-light of often silent corridors

That have so often called me home.

Taking the time to feel the rhythm of a building,

To be there from early to late is special.

To be there in silence casts a spell on you

That nothing can break.

I’ll be back soon I promise you,

I can only stay away so long,

Before you call me again.

Keeper of my heart.

My muse. My museum.