Back to the drawing board
Brushing up against the past
The painter reflects on the scenes
He made his peace with old friends
And turns to the Old Masters.
Conceived in his watchful calm
Never turning his back from
The canvas though his back
Was a picture of the years
That rested squarely on his shoulders
Congruent with the town square
In which he lived and breathed life
Into his paintings the clouds and sky
From within, a real air to it, and city,
And landscape and all his canvas
Became a painted mirror watercolour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem