In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light

he lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life

his speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed

I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea



To the world he was the Master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls

but now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls

subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft refrain

a thousand forms and colours, but every face the same



Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds

... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream



A winter's night when I arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end

and as I cleaned his bench and brushes, I wished out loud to be like him

he said that art was only longing, trying to do what can't be done

and though he'd signed a thousand paintings, still he'd never finished one



As I finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name

I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same

not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen

as she served his noble dream



Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds

... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream