IMAGES:

I saw a field of flowers, pretty, coloured & wild,

Their beauty not permitting canvas & my oils,

To capture their essence, for eyes of the child,

I espied the bird aloft, on soft feathered wings,

No camera swift enough, to capture his flight,

Gone in the blink of an eye & the note he sings.

Forest greens, mountain mauves, rainbow hues,

Rivers running, oceans crashing, plumes a-flight,

Old stone, polished oak of ancient church pews,

 No quills, no brushes, to daub, paint & scribe,

No detaining dalliances of dancing dallied daisies,

To record upon the pages of every human tribe.

The turn of your head, face & graceful tiny hand,

Your smile & the curl upon your pearly soft nape,

No photographer & artist in any far & distant land,

None can catch your image, or gentle picture paint,

Of your heaving breast & your dewy loving breath,

To conserve forever beauty, however old & feint.

No camera & canvas, nor paper´s ivory heavy ream,

No implements of wisdom & no pencils scribing fine,

There´s no album & diary, to recall the passing scene,

Where the eyes feast & the heart feels warm & kind,

I need none of these, to recall the image of true beauty,

It´s all in the soul, canvas & album, kept within the mind.