Carol Ann Duffy


Only art now — our bodies, brushstroke, pigment, motif;
our story, figment, suspension of disbelief;
the thrum of our blood, percussion;
chords, minor, for the music of our grief.

Art, the chiselled, chilling marble of our kiss;
locked into soundless stone, our promises,
or fizzled into poems; page print
for the dried flowers of our voice.

No choice for love but art’s long illness, death,
huge theatres for the echoes that we left,
applause, then utter dark;
grand opera for the passion of our breath;

and the Oscar-winning movie in your heart;
and where my soul sang, croaking art.