From boy to
man he´d painted mountains & hills,
Deformed from
birth, he used art to relieve his ills,
Daily he´d
sketch, daub & to canvas he´d add his paint,
Masterpieces,
tempting men in awe & maidens to faint,
Such beauty
he saw & felt, in hills & all mountains high,
He painted
their valleys & peaks soaring into the sky.
He painted
the Andes, Atlas & the bleak snowy Urals,
On canvas,
paper, parchment & on mansioned murals,
Kilimanjaro,
Matterhorn, Sierras, Nevis & much more,
He painted
every little hill, peak & every rocky wee tor,
He daubed
their dunes, their pines & their snowy peaks,
Sketched
eyries of eagles, their beady eyes & saffron beaks.
He painted the
Alps & Snowdon, with craggy mountain goat,
He drew with
fury, the sky, where the scudding clouds float,
The painter
aged, both he & his drying paint cracked & lined,
The one mount
in his life, that he´d never painted nor climbed,
Was of Venus,
escaping his manhood, paints & his longing grasp,
That mount of
desire, only imagined & eluded, in his dying gasp.
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