Robert Young - The Painter Paints a Picture

Paint me a picture, says the King to the court painter;
Make it bold and majestic and rich in its design.
The painter sits down while the king watches.
He gently dabs the canvas with his finest brush,
The colour seeping out onto the dry canvas,
Images enter his mind; in pieces.
The grey front door, its rusty handle.
The two stone paths converging into one.
Alone, the glass angel placed between;

He now summons the grass with his brush
The blue sky beams, while the leaves begin to blush
In the distance is the grey blanket once again
At the tips of the blades, rust appears;
The paths break away, the angel lies in crystal pieces
Cracks begin to appear in the painting,
Deep veins of weakness, the colour fades and drains.
It tears into two halves; all that are left are the fragmented memories
Embedded in the canvas, they remain there:

The painter is free of them.

He puts down the image and casts it to the floor;
Eyes fixed on the white untouched canvas, he conjures once more.

Robert Young

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