After all these years, after painting all those ugly pictures,
And writing all of those lost ideas in broken verses,
I cast my mind back, not to childhood or its homestead,
But to a view in a far-off empire.
I did it properly this time and began with a sketch,
Which developed easily into my first beautiful picture.
‘What, were you so bitter,’ you ask,
‘Were you so lost as to be unable to paint something beautiful until you were forty-seven?’
There’s a horizon, a river, no bridge, a cloudy sky and a blazing sun,
A forested mountain twin-peaks and a fort.
A fort seen in mind or imitated by cameras and pasted up online.
But mine is better because I made it.
‘What are you so conceited that you would rather paint a picture than download a photograph?’
Ah, but mine is not contrived. It is pictures put online that are contrived.
The authors are anonymous and the audience is en-mass, the images precise.
I could go on with this into arguments of quality but I don’t know how to.
I painted something that I am pleased with. That’s what was important.