The singer

June 2024

Poem from Kevin Cosgrove, written in modern italics. I did two versions, one is white gouache on black, the other one is walnut ink, both written with a quill.

The gods they know who is the best singer
Of all the people that walk up the street
And on the privileged corners linger
And cross and then uncross their dusty feet.

One day the trees will suddenly just bloom
And shaking with the birds release their scent.
The singer will come rushing from his room
Or from her hiding-place she will be sent.

But now the buses pass and lights go off
And shops close down and open selling less.
The singer is alone and quite far-off
Engaged in their one thousandth game of chess.

The children in the park wait for the song
And do not know they do not wait for long.

– Kevin Cosgrove