Whole

I see the sheen first,
gleaming but mottled nude,
like glowing skin, or a pure white iris,
a shell of itself staring back.

An oblong shadow pours out from underneath,
warm light from the right is:
daylight? A night light? A hot bulb under a shade?
It's tinting, tainting, tempering the uncracked oval.

A real show off,
wholly poised, prouder than proud,
flush with fullness,
but it's waiting, for something, anything.

Perhaps for a feathered foot to burst through,
or a wing or beak to the insides:
Break free little bird!
See the light of day!

Stillness is in the balance,
firm yet fragile,
could tip at any time
with a wobble of a wooden table leg,
or a waft of wind from an open door,
to make it

roll,
fall,
spin and sink beyond emerald edges,
until whites and yellows splat on the cold lino floor.

Half

Cracked up to be
a half, unequal, incomplete,
bits of itself hanging on,
forgotten flakes,
somewhere, not here, where?

Left to the elements,
sad air-dried cavity,
breezy emptiness,
dark patch in an ivory smudge.

A shadow again,
but not half of a shadow,
same shadow as the whole.

Milky beginnings become blurred,
a wholeness that once was,
membranes upon membranes:
useless now.

What are you green?
A murky swamp? A silky tablecloth? Neatly cut grass on a spring day?
Curdled paint strokes like
worms in a pond of algae.

A whimper between the cracks,
as if an open mouth calling for its other side,
left behind in a place unknown.

Quarter

The baby of the family,
or a broken cup,
a chalice once home to another.

Lake of blotchy blue and white,
tinges of brown as sand on a shore,
a brittle mountain range,
trying,
hoping to shield it from the storm.

A half of a half,
a quarter of a whole,
no pieces hanging off here,
clear edges clear of snags,
creamy points clearly broken

but solid,
reaching up like pincered fingers wanting more

There it is again,
a moon with no hue,
smaller,
cropped at the top, stunted by low edges,
owning up to its opening.

Fractured little thing,
light slipping through its rifts,
broken seams,
shattered nook,

but becoming something wholly new.

Esme Boggis, Learning Programme Coordinator at Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art

This content was written as an example piece of creative writing for the Write on Art programme. Write on Art is a national writing programme that invites young people (14 to 19 years old) to explore personal, creative and critical responses to art, and how they can be shared through writing.