adamdaniel

The Ghost of Alonso Berruguete

With oils in colourful display,
The pallete in his hand,
He leaned towards the canvas sheet,
Upon the easel stand.

Strokes in genius produced,
The artist in his bliss,
Daubs of paint without restraint,
His hand would never miss.

Faces gifted perfect life,
And shadows gently cast,
Heavy clouds in painted shrouds,
And landscapes stretching vast.

His inspiration knew no end,
His passion as a flame,
And at the base of every piece,
He’d deftly sign his name.

In his studio he sang,
And hummed a hymnal tune,
All his visions pouring forth,
A painter’s merry swoon.

The magic of the Spanish eve,
The birds in winsome croon,
The gentle light a soft delight,
Beneath the sickle moon.

The painter feeling satisfied,
But somehow strangely faint,
He set his tools down on the bench,
Aside the pots of paint.

And with aplomb the reaper moved,
And called him to the grave,
And lurching down he met the ground,
A sorry, helpless knave.

His ghost emerged in hazy light,
And carried in the air,
Above Toledo’s greenery,
His brightness like a flare.

Heaven’s host wrapped up his ghost,
In God’s prodigious love,
And soaring free in newfound glee,
He met the stars above.