The Blind Artist

he thought he invented angels, clouds
the colour green at rest;
the face of God

in a clouded nest;
Orion in a forest pool.
numbered among the holy fools

as if he were the only one
he painted the eclipse...
from great museums one by one

his paintings disappeared
from startling year to year
all retrospectives

honored, as in a mist
and when I think of this I cried
while watercolours all subside

dissolved on film
and in the archives
bright as snows.

the ladders to the skies.
braille, of the secret rose.

mary angela douglas 14 may 2019