To paint with restraint,
not to be artificial, falsely quaint,
but to draw the line divine, like an angel,
with care and patience, fine as a saint,
such was his wish,
be his subject beast, bird or fish.
On a bare canvas, fresh colours, he splashed,
the result to look perfect,
not haphazardly dashed.
Green Woodpecker, his new work he named,
revealed his love of nature untamed,
for which he was famed.
Green woodpecker, what a thing to do, he mused,
to clamp yourself to a tree,
to hammer with your beak at its bark,
to disturb insects to eat,
to such a bird, the equivalent of meat,
and to stamp around the forest floor,
to disturb the business of an ant hill,
to feed on more than one ant.
No, he would rather be a sparrow or a lark.
Green woodpecker, what a thing to be,
yet glorious to see,
inspired his new painting, spied it on his walk,
its concentration full on an ant, half way up a tree.