The Blind Artist Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

he thought he invented angels, clouds

the colour green at rest;

the face of God



in a clouded nest;

Orion in a forest pool.

numbered among the holy fools



as if he were the only one

he painted the eclipse...

from great museums one by one



his paintings disappeared

from startling year to year

all retrospectives



honored, as in a mist

and when I think of this I cried

while watercolours all subside



dissolved on film

and in the archives

bright as snows.



the ladders to the skies.

braille, of the secret rose.



mary angela douglas 14 may 2019