I remember most of all the hanging nasturtiums
in the Courtyard Garden, ‘dramatic cascades’
as the promo said. There once was a famous theft here,
of thirteen Old Masters. I steal these bright flowers
with my eyes, store them in my permanent recollection.
Driving away in my virtual sports car with the top down,
’Where have all the flowers gone?’ I hum to myself –
but don’t go on down that road. It leads to awareness
of war. I’ll bury that thought (and scrub the word ‘bury’).
The flowers are alive back there in the Courtyard Garden.
They are more beautiful than dead masterpieces.
There is no need at all to remind myself I can’t smell
those flowers, no need to imagine all the people
buried in the rubble of wars, who will never return.
You on the other side of my laptop – let’s pretend this is real.
NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Eighteen. As well as the chance to be inspired by this museum, we were asked to 'craft your own poem that recounts an experience of driving/riding and singing, incorporating a song lyric'. (I've incorporated bits of 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' by Bob Dylan and 'Imagine' by John Lennon.)