In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light
he lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life
his speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both
grace and speed
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and
bring his tea
To the world he was the Master, his landscapes filled the
gallery halls
but now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private
walls
subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft
refrain
a thousand forms and colours, but every face the same
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history
bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream
A winter's night when I arrived there, he looked so tired and
near the end
and as I cleaned his bench and brushes, I wished out loud to be
like him
he said that art was only longing, trying to do what can't be
done
and though he'd signed a thousand paintings, still he'd never
finished one
As I finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the
same
not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen
as she served his noble dream
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history
bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream
