Colour Theory

The operation was judged a success —
Scientists take painter, make pianist!
He played scenes in our heads
from a palette of keys. ‘Listen:
a courtyard with baskets of flowers
at evening. A widow’s bare bathroom.
And this short piece for flute
is a bus stop in Kent.’ Or so he said —
we couldn’t quite see it.

The story stuttered, then stopped.
He tried to explain — how notes shake
like waves in air, escaping the score,
ending their lives in the grave of an ear.
Somewhere along the drama had gone.
He missed his wife. Colour-blind,
each evening he’d list for her
the scale of the sunset. ‘Blue tonight,
love. Now pink. Now red.’

Reconstruction

It is unimportant, the number
of this house, the name
of the unremarkable street,
because it is a film set, by which we mean
a crime scene, or perhaps a film set
of a crime scene. There are extras
or locals, who loiter by the yellow cordons,
blowing into polystyrene cups.
They know their lines.
Inside, the air’s unused or sterilised,
a TV on full blast
is mugging through the wall.
On metal masts, spotlights cross
like country signposts.
A coat lolls on a chair,
numbered tickets plot the steps
of an especially tricky dance
and some items here
have been bagged-up in polythene:
lipstick, matches drowned in wax,
fibres, hair (light brown),
skin cells or dust.
Smears of ink or blood.
Enough here to be getting on.
Upstairs, men are pitched beside a bedroom door.
A girl lies on the bed. She doesn’t blink,
though an actor could master that,
or a well-cast mannequin.
It’s safe while she says nothing.