I think she died, or went to sleep,      perhaps, on a small pale pillow of hope        set against a back-drop of despair ...           but there's a burnt sienna head floating,                                   somewhere,                   in pools of jacaranda blue, visible only to those who read,      across and through   and around ... in the spaces where    paint can merge with thoughts     and words and something else ...          but she's there, still   as a Nolan Shakespeare sonnet       or some other                          utterly brilliant                       verbal                        sludge                       that sings, sometimes                                                   after dark.