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Eiffel Tower
A ghostly figure roams across the
Cold steel, softly creeping. Lazily it yawns,
And stretches its wings, then jumps straight into
The open sky. A crimson sea ebbing
And flowing, tooing and frowing gently
But forever. One moment, fixed in time.
The Parisian Sunset.
Away it flies, towards the horizon
Until it is nothing but a speck in
The Artist’s canvas, Who looks up, and sighs,
Wipes the sweat from His brow and takes a breath.
Long has He tried to capture the essence
Of that colossal structure with strokes and paint.
The graveyard of failed attempts surround Him,
Here, in His store. Lousy knock-offs of a
Perfect moment which cannot be translated
For love nor money. Lord knows He’s traced those
Subtle curves a thousand times, to no avail.
“But is it any wonder, that same sense
Of wonder, cannot be caught with tools as
Inadequate as these?” He thinks to himself.
Strokes flutter sideways and miss the mark
Of that pure undiluted sensation,
Feeling what He feels now.
The crimson vapour breathes its last goodbye
To day and welcomes the night
With open arms. The Artist smiles, then sighs,
Gathers His supplies walks the same walk
That He has walked for over a century– back home.
Where does he live? Why, in Spain and France and Italy,
In Wales and Greece and Germany,
But most of all in You and Me, who roam,
This world with eyes that see the beauty
Which must live on.
It must live on.
It must.
