Like a painting it is set before one,
But less brittle, ageless; these colours
Are renewed daily with variations
Of light and distance that no painter
Achieves or suggests. Then there is movement,
Change, as slowly the cloud bruises
Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps
A black mood; but gold at evening
To cheer the heart. All through history
The great brush has not rested,
Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,
Looking coolly, or, as we now,
Through the tearsf lenses, ever saw
This work and it was not finished?

"The View from the Window"
from Poetry for Supper
You can also find this in
COLLECTED POEMS 1945-1990(J.M.Dent, 1993).
Images by Yoshifum! Nagata

background image: Manafon hill