The Picture

To paint a landscape was my quest
I'd practised hard now came the test,
to see if I could paint the scene
of a place where once I'd been.

With easel strapped onto my back
while brushes, paints went in my pack,
I clambered up a rocky path
supported by my oak wood staff.

Through the ever-persistent fog
above the town and city smog,
the crystal dew was scattered round
by my footsteps on the ground.

The panoramic view was quite sublime
I drank it in like summer wine,
A kaleidoscope of colour and hue
from red and yellow to green and blue.

Up to my left a mountain tarn
a broken fence an abandoned barn,
water lay in a mirrored pool
a splash of white from a waterfall.

Mist I painted in the trees
and flowers bent before the breeze,
a stream flowed by quite crystal clear
crossed by mum and baby deer.

Now three feet wide and three feet tall
a picture hangs upon my wall,
a replica of that mountain scene
a place now that twice I've been.