A general sweep of knowledge,
The imitations act as homage,
Swirling clouds of violet haze,
The punctured colour and the greys.
Bright daffodils of yellow hues,
His face, his eyes of china blue.
All these I knew in separate part
But never composed the work of art
That was his life in palette mixed
And was contained in eyes transfixed.
Vincent is captured contrast
Painting flowers when downcast,
Capturing joy in depths of pain
He could not rend the two in twain.
In his night the stars shine bright,
Despair his darkness, hope his light.
There his flowers burn the sky
And heaven drops its glory by,
His God reaching down to faces unknown,
Strangers met by him and honour shown.
Written on 4th January 2020.