The Boy Artist
My story is of a boy called Henry;
He has a prodigious talent
Nurtured in the stealth and secrecy
Of an isolated attic bedroom.
Not even his parents visit
And the only source of light’s a sunbeam
Aimed like an arrow through the skylight.
This talent he thinks came direct from
Michelangelo or Pablo Picasso
But he does not draw chapels or angels
His scenes are of nature and isolation,
Of animals, of secret places and night.
His masterpiece is revealed after six long months;
His parents are in awe; they had no idea.
In a single moment their son has risen
To a place of prominence they never foresaw.
His picture is framed upon the wall:
It is of a hound, a huge ferocious monster of a dog
With dripping jaws and an untameable wildness.
It is so real it could walk out the picture
Which it does
When everyone in the house is asleep
Except the boy Henry, who is awake
Downstairs and thirsting for adventure
and at one with his creation.
In a flash of moonlight boy and dog
Have cleared the garden wall
To be swallowed by the forest
Never to return to such undeserving parents.
All they are left with is a picture
Or more precisely, an empty frame,
An unoccupied bed and a deserted duvet