If you were a stone picker, br that look of resigned surprise br at the pile of stones, defying gravity br to bubble up from the meadow around br your carefully scuffed boots, br would become you. br As it is that pail (water? milk?) , br that artfully propped basket br (the almost gingham cloth br draped studio-careless across it) , br that washed-out high buttoned br sexless dress, world-weary br incline of shoulder br are, no less than you, mere artifice. br Though, Polly (may I call you that?) br I may be too flinty with you. br Nursemaid, haymaker, br shepherdess, village girl - br you worked in fields, stood at gates br offered up head, shoulders, body br to the filleting and resolving gaze - br whatever the master ordered up, br you would become. br No less than the painter though, br I can fabricate a narrative of you; br it would speak of subversion. br How that whippet-tense body br would clamp, obdurate br at the raising of the brush. br How you fingered that br swaddle-tight, hessian apron- br almost empire line under your breasts - br as if it was the swirl of a ball gown br and you were celebrating br a full dance card. br br You understood well br that womanservant ju jitsu br which rendered flexible br the painter's hold on you.