A dusty picture faded on the wall
in harmony with floating wisps of web.
Its grace an autumn hue stroked short and tall,
horizon, yacht embarked, and sun-washed ebb,
well captured in the glinting light of dusk.
The paint had aged. Neglect, wet rot and mold
had smudged the letters. Barely there, its husk
was signed, “with love” in waltzing ink of gold.
So many days and months, then years had passed
since artist’s last-drawn-breath and hope-bright eyes
had seen creation, heard harsh insults cast,
and gifted imperfection grieving cries.
Yet beauty cursed with spite and hateful quirk
still lingered, till acclaimed consummate work.