Another saint with halo firmly fixed to head,
a baby Jesus in a manger,
two more warmly held in the Madonna’s arms,
the head of John the Baptist on a plate,
the stoning of a martyr,
and that’s only in the first gallery.
From one door,
a despairing Judas beckons.
Through another,
on the far wall,
t’s the parting waters of the Red Sea
opening up a path for me.

I spend an hour or so
with miracles, parables,
crucifixions and resurrections
before moving on to dour Dutch businessmen,
flattered royalty, English landscapes,
French nudes, American presidents,
women with guitars growing out of their thighs,
drooping watches, splatters of paint,
blocks of color and soup cans.

Four hours in the Museum:
I begin my adventure
as loving, beatific, as otherworldly as a saint.
I end it as metallic, as bland,
as predictable, as a soup can.

Four hours in a museum
is a life.

John Grey

(image by Dale Williams Barrigar)