I was flicking through an old book
The other day and came across
A postcard.
Just a simple postcard.
But withered, and old,
Yellow, tea-stained
And dirty.
But under the remnant of years,
Even decades,
Lay a painting.
Not a real one, a print;
But still a painting.
Oil on Canvas
121.9 x 90.2 cm
Anonymous,
It was.
Painted by an inspired man,
Unturned by fame,
Painting only to enjoy
And to upturn the corners
Of a mouth.
And it did that.
