Poplars at the River Epte by Claude Money, 1891
                  (an eckphrastic poem)

The tripled trucks arise to sweep the sky 
of alabaster blue. A flock of leaves, 
forever stilled mid-flight, this last reprise 
from slow decay has somehow caught his eye — 
the laden brush, the smear and daub, reply. 
The artist sees just where the water weaves 
among those airy cages, creaking eaves          
that ripple in the river flowing by.   

This heat’s not quenched. The sap still climbs to shake
the wind’s blue feathers. Purple catkins sway   
beneath the trembling stars, a moon opaque
as milk. The trees still glow with flames that play
off drowning suns. They smolder as they break
into a thousand brush-strokes, ray by ray.