The depth-defying subject
portrayed by artist's hidden hand;
then creeps a shade of doubt,
that turns a streak of blue
from day to night:
or early morn, created
by a soul-less streak of white.
A shadow on the fore
suggests a tangled tree;
a shroud of grey, forsaken mist,
as though,, by death’s cold lip was kissed.
Yet still that overpowering doubt,
that shows for sure, something missed out.
Perchance we find that stroke of blue
is really quite a different view -
a distant wave that ripples an the sea,
flaked with the white of pure eternity;
and maybe that shadow on the fore
a piece of life, left lying on the shore.
Half hidden by a mystery
that drifts off on the lonely wake,
only to return - like driftwood,
floating back for same forgotten sake.
Somewhere, hidden in the depths of soul,
of mind and body, wracked with pain,
we look, once more, upon this masterpiece of art
to seek new mystery again.
What kind of man portrays
- or is portrayed - in suchlike art?
between the heaven and earth
to play his part.
Is he not acting life supreme?
creative out of every dream;
each piece of work, a whole,
designed by very depths of soul.
Found by some mere fluke of life
displaying the theme of human strife.
leaving to the mind a mystery
to be unwrapped, like a parcel.
For even as we search each layer
to find some small, familiar thing,
we find the next, like life,
entangled, crushed, within.
There seems to be no end
and yet, there lies in tranquil depths,
a truth, so strong that it will out,
to force away that overpowering doubt.
© 1964 : Colin Gordon-Farleigh
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