pigeon wings
The Birth of Venus
in my left pocket

it was 1879
it is now
it is always

a seashell rolling
over time’s wet velvet edge
Venus uncreased whole

she rises
held up not by
ideology but love
the scent of clean washing
under a magnolia tree

fifteen cherubs
and not one of them
is anxious
they all know what they’re doing
she knows what she’s doing

I show
the painting to a boy
sitting on a bench
near the aviary

he smiles
“she looks alright”
and yes she does
more than alright

the dusk-lit windows
of the co-op on a slow
September evening

only breath
market stalls
selling seashells
socks and samosas

this is it

she is not
an escape from the world
she is the world

in stillness
in pigment
in full-blown
unabashed beauty

blue as longing gets
her gaze meets the viewer’s eye
not blushing but bold

later
I’ll walk the canal
sirens and birdsong
misremembered poetry

for now
I stand beside her
and she is enough
a blessing in oils

a goddess
with perfect posture
and no shame

Paul Conneally
June 24th 2025
Loughborough