Smouldering in sunlight
Streaming through heat-shattered panes,
Mackintosh lies burning,
Wrought-iron roses withered
Upon the sill in mourning.
Hellfire reduced his work
To charcoal and clinker,
Iconic lights dripped from the ceiling,
Furniture fuelled the flames
Of a geometric bonfire.
The reality of the loss as one sifts
Through blackened timbers and trusses
Searching for survivors,
Is stark, painful, pathetic,
And phenomenal.
They cry for not a volume,
not a page, not a line remains
Of the tenants of tulipwood shelves,
Their souls scorched, their binding burnt,
Incinerated by an Art Nouveau Apocalypse.
No comments:
Post a Comment