It is done and
finished. I fold it gently
And stow it in the innermost recess.
Nothing can change it now: it is immune
From fire and flood, from theft and from retouching.
The colours cannot fade: it will be only
My eyes that blur, my fingers losing touch.
It will exist, inviolate, complete,
Though I no longer draw it forth again.
And slowly it will blend, a grain of diamond,
With the sand of time and rhythm of eternity.
by Damaris West
Read the story behind this poem
Vote For My Site!