Thursday, 23 June 2016 - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Prisoners Exercising, by Van Gogh

The dismal spectre of a dying stanza

gasps between the black and white keys

of a crumbling, tuneless piano.

Cigarette burns and brown stains
scar its tired wooden top—  tarnished

medals from recent wars and skirmishes.

These are the Beagle’s final days.

In a rusty voice, the town crier’s bell

proclaims to empty streets and galleries

the death of art and poetry in the city

and sombre incantations continue into the night.

Beyond all courage, obscure poets

shelter in the barricades of French cafés

and Vincent circles the yard each day in tears—

all his sunflowers and bright yellow fields

have perished in autumn’s fading light.