(Willow Tearooms by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
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Dave Souza @ Wikipedia)
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
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.