|Poems by Mollie Caird (1922-2000)
|The dancing dust
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|The sun has cast a slanting beam|
Into my room; with arms out-thrust
My little boy pursues the gleam
Of dancing, insubstantial dust.
He cannot catch the elusive toy,
But, eager-handed and intent,
He tries again with anxious joy,
Caught between tears and merriment.
Thus wrapt, he stands transfigured there,
And through his dark eyes shines his soul,
His hands are flowers, and of his hair
The sun has made an aureole.
So does the artist try to seize
The airy motes that throng his brain,
Knowing creation's agonies,
The fierce delight and fiercer pain.
'In his own image' it was said:
The artist like his maker stands
With godlike glory round his head
And beauty slipping through his hands.
Undated. about 1951
The Dancing Dust and other poems, 1983