AN ARTIST DIES
There will be one this morning
who walks out on the hill untroubled
by the mist and the rain.
Watching with a new eye the bright lichen
on the slick rock, the bobbing wagtail
by the water’s edge.
.
Who will wonder only a little
At the acheless knees, the easy breath,
as he climbs the high ridge out of the oaks.
.
Who will never forget the beauty, nor the love,
but who is still drawn on by a certain brightness,
Like something long forgotten now returning.
.
There is a distant sea of weeping and emptiness,
A yearning somewhere far off beyond the day’s glint,
somewhere where everything is still the same,
though somehow veiled and trammelled.
.
And he shall walk among his sheep
without them lifting their heads, even.
And his dogs will wag their tails,
then look around bemused;
and the cat will stare and stare,
blinking once so very, very slowly.
.
And what was unfinished there
in the studio,
now seems utterly complete,
even so.
Good enough to leave untouched,
good enough to say what needs to be said.
The careful line, the hint of colours:
there is no end to this work.
A brand new sketchbook,
open and white,
is waiting.
—
