This has always been a vanishing occupation.
In Winter he kneels to The Old Masters,
At Christmas to The Nativity.
He suffers the longest overcoat
Murky with colour,
Half-mittens, scarf and balaclava.
His chalks fester in a battered biscuit tin,
On the ground an ancient collecting cap,
The best of his art.
Summer is always sentimental,
Horses, animals, children,
The beach at Brighton.
A conveyor belt of pictures.
Each one stopped in the perfect still
Of the pavement video.
He lives entirely for the present.
After the rain we discover
Faded fragments like medieval frescoes
To puzzle over.
© Derek Power