By and | 1 December 2013

We’re awaiting
a feeling
so Peter picks up

his trumpet.
It wasn’t dented.
It’s dented now.

Melody sits
on lukewarm air.
It’s nice that he’s trying.

A day is a day.
We drift
til a note hits the line

and we know who is in/
outside. The score: hope
like truth should sit

in inverted commas.
But this,
this is taking us


Trumpet | Fiona White | Oil on linen | 145cm x85cm

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