Klimt’s trees
stand frozen and clear,
sleepily austere
in their ghostly
dawn-gaunt aura.
Ranks of indigo,
turquoise, sapphire
glittering, like figures
on a paper screen –
floating, flat,
no trace of shadow.
At first, the trees
rise thin and cold,
but they pulse
with such weird, blue
profusion,
responding to an awed,
watchful eye,
that blasted
in unbounded light
they disappear –
declare the void.
