the book of Turner's paintings I held

in awe like a whisper

the agony of such scapes

where a brush once had laced

together a purpose and a vision

for a moment blinded me

to the shop, tucked in 

as I was, away from the splashes

of celeb chefs, the cacophony 

of tumbling Christmas mock Blytons

Ladybird books that would fly

to post turkey glutted hands for humour

 

I was glad of the dead coming to life

that way just for a few moments,

being lifted up and perpetuated

and somehow blessed.