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.