Father and Son

As he to hold his brush and palette struggled,
I clutched his hand, played a magic wand,
Swayed to draw the horizon crimson red,
Paint clouds, rolls, curls, flags all unfurled,
In shades seldom darkened, oft brightened,
Flew with him in colour imagined riot,
Cleaned up the chart dust ere the start,
With wet, blend paint he sullied my shirt,
With a smile, I washed off the spot.

At midnight cold, I now sweat, inner burnt,
Wake, unlearn, re-learn, unknown moment,
Offer all that I have to my fragile reflect,
Still quietude: await the unkempt, unheard.

The wind whispers what the thought forgot.

“He returns”.


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