Like a painting it is set before one,
But less brittle, ageless; these colours
Are renewed daily with variations
Of light and distance that no painter
Achieves or suggests.
Then there is movement,
Change, as slowly the cloud bruises
Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps
A black mood; but gold at evening
To cheer the heart.
All through history
The great brush has not rested,
Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,
Looking coolly, or, as we now,
Through the tears’ lenses, ever saw
This work and it was not finished?…R.S.Thomas
The poem is called “The View from the Window” with it’s ever changing moods…the great brush never rests, nor the paint dries…best to stop and stare, take it in while it’s there…it will be gone in a flash ..Toronto Ontario Canada..
Watercolour on Arches Not Paper…