Gone but Never Forgotten By Meadhbh Finnegan, age 17. He had painted it, Using old paints and brushes. Half lined grass, In a field of golden glimmer. This was where the pheasants perched, Blending in like lime to leaf. Each trimming an exact replica. The tree bark, rough And sky so soft, In waves of greens and blues. Carefully unfolding an evening sun, Delicate and warm. The colours told me this As the painting spoke for itself. The thatched house was not centred But slightly to the right, It was homely. The gentle crosses on the windows And bricked material with hints of black.
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