A Grand Old Painter

A grand old painter in the evening hush,

Is sitting weary, hunched and rheumatoid.

With shaky hands, he gathers up a brush,

And stares into the canvas’ grey void.

When after much time, he lets out a sigh,

As though at last he’s made himself ready,

And it’s as if what’s seen in his mind’s eye,

Has allowed his old hands to grow steady.

Now from his palette the colours that pour,

His genius moving from mind to hand;

And beautiful brush strokes he lays before,

As though some power he draws on command.

This grand old painter in the evening hush,

By definition, he defines the truth.

And steady of hand, of mind and of brush,

He works this self-portrait of him in youth.