The Artist

The juice of an orange
dribbling down his bearded chin.
His eyes watering, from the fumes of the onions
or is he just intoxicated.
His nose is running from a 
sudden attack of sneezing.
A stud penetrating his left ear.
His paintings with splashes of colour.
He struggles to sell them at the local art show.
His proboscis protruding his face.
His spectacles just on the tip of his nose.
He reads Jorge Luis Borges and the poetic works 
of Rupert Brooke.
The life on his farm,
the stillness of the bush.
The Will say's,
his ashes spread over his land.
The Artist,
alive in his paintings...