Like some alien thing
the Solomom R. Guggenheim Museum
on New York's Fifth Avenue
spirals me round and round its heart.
Its domed skylight eye
ever watchful of its looping ramp
weighted with admirers of its organic form
bathes me in its light.
As I move through its space
my pulse races with its magic
but when I reach the third floor
sandwiched between Joan Miro's
luminous, colourful imagination above
and Picasso below whose inner child
painted with him
to find the exquisitely energetic, playful
and spontaneous paintings of children
yet to be told how to paint their world
my heart sings.
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