The Portrait

The Portrait

Night winds coil the sunless hours

as daylight wiggles out of darkness.

A kingly fez, curved by a green turban,

spun round His hallowed head.

Humble, my beloved, the painter

could not gaze into His face.

He took his hands,

so blessed, and smoothed

the crests on His garb.

The painter had no choice,

he bowed in shame.