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You’re one of the Immortals now. Your tree

of ambition no longer grows below

a sun of indifference. The cemetery

you lived by as a child cast a shadow

of upthrusting obelisks on your art,

exaggerating your perspective.

Chastity, abandon were not apart

under your harvest moon. Your objective

in all those white rooms was to set the rose,

its falling petals, organically;

to counterpoint the geometry of those

rectilinears. Asymmetrically

your stylised willow branches swept the ground,

lent elegance to Glasgow women who,

with chequered backgrounds flocked to those renowned

Tea Rooms, to gossip while oiled pigeons flew

past the mirrored windows, green, silver, pink,

landing on grey Sauchiehall pavements.

Prim and proper matrons perched on the brink

of high-backed chairs, replacing tenement

tedium with scones and Lapsang Souchong,

while you wrote: “There are cobwebs on your chair,

Dearest Margaret.” You wanted to belong

and now the legacy of your affair

belongs, not just to Glasgow, but, unfurled,

like a woven banner, makes proclamation,

displays your genius to a dreaming world,

wakening through your imagination.

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