ALL HE HAD IN HIS HAND.
The man was old and worn,
his clothes tattered and torn,
a twinkle in his eyes of grey,
a smile that did not fade away.

His hands were gnarled and old,
of hard work they surely told,
yet in those old stubby fingers
some art still some-how lingers.

A small piece of coloured chalk
he uses to draw on the sidewalk,
pictures of gardens and tall trees,
almost seen to move in the breeze.

He smiles as coins are to him thrown,
he’ll draw a picture for you alone,
there seems magic in his hands
as he draws scenes from other lands.

He knew his last masterpiece would come
when his time on earth was nearly done,
a painting of a mother and child so fair
in a lovely place, he wanted to be there.

With only the chalk in his old hand,
he was taken away to his promised land,
he died putting that last touch on the face
of his wife, a picture of beauty and grace.

It stayed on the sidewalk for many a day,
long after the old man had gone away,
so much joy from chalk and hands so old
Will long be remembered and of’en told.

M Ann Margetson © December 30, 1999