Portrait Of a Painter

I saw her in the Northern Light

sitting on her chair;

her face a sight of silent dreams,

half hidden by her hair.

 

In front of her a white canvas

waited to be born;

waited to be soaked in life,

or else,to be torn!

 

Her eyes,I could not see from here,

but I could imagine;

the depth of sadness rendered them

the brightest I have seen.

 

With careless love,her idle fingers,

caressed brush and paint;

sometimes in restless anger,

sometimes,just to acquaint!

 

Sometimes to her hidden World,

sometimes to the sky;

sometimes to the end of dreams,

away,away,she would fly.

 

The Northern Light did fall on her,

making her a sketch;

a picture on the frame of life,

the Unknown Hand did etch.

 

The moment that I saw that day,

I never lost nor tell;

not a painter,but a painting,

that I love till hell !!