Brueghel's Paintbrush

I am Breughel's paintbrush. I enjoyed painting the sea On his latest canvas, in small clear pats of flat. Trees, fields, those meticulous clouds Came rolling off the palette On to the squared field of my framed world. So, when my master drew That splash of ridiculous Icarus — Windless, without a bolt from Jupiter; All, all disturbingly normal I was upset that he should spoil The rustic idyll of my careful toil. Such a small death in the scheme of things. Now, people pause and shudder as they pass: It's tumbling Icarus comes back To haunt them like garlic on the breath — Not the measured furrows of the yeoman — From the far side of the painter's glass.