Pastel shades, gold and scarlet,
splendid in the evening light,
the cleanest shades.
The room, largely decorative
with plumes of grey and black and blue.
They called it a masterpiece,
the papers, and the writer,
a genius and collector of textiles and pottery,
declared it a success, his wallpaper
a unique blend of colour and life,
depicting adventures from Africa,
with lion skins and giraffes
coupled with Anglo French draperies
and materials from Indonesia.
And then the fire, a sombre candle
for his mother on a writing desk,
below the chintzes from Liberty in London.
Alone now, in a boarding house,
antiquities lost, but not forgotten,
nothing left to lose.

Written by Jack Brewis