Somehow, past the custodians, two green leaves
have entered the gallery to lie
side by side beneath Chagall’s ‘Promenade’.
The artist – next to the wedding treasures
higgledy on a red cloth, his feet
almost firmly in the richly green fields
by the piggledy village, his expression
ecstatic and apprehensive – grips
his painter’s bag with his right hand, with his left,
held upright, his wife’s for she is flying
in a purple dress. Soon he may fly too.
Perhaps the leaves have come from the tree
above the nuptial gifts. Maybe the rush of air
has teased them, from a young woman flying.
Leaves will fall – lovers fly.