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

boy painting

© Alan Combes, 2019. All Rights Reserved

Alan Combes