Belinda

Belinda was an artist
Who painted things from life.
She'd be there at her easel,
With brush or palette knife.
She always looked so calm,
With not a hint of strife.

I'd see her in the cornfield
Or on the village green.
She always looked so lovely,
Quite poised and so serene.
She'd shyly say hello and smile,
As I walked by her scene.

And then one day I saw her
Sitting by a stream,
Her sketchbook on her lap —
'Twas like a waking dream.
I marvelled at her beauty;
A vision, it would seem!

I slowly walked towards her,
Quite curious to see
Whatever she was sketching,
Beneath a shady tree.
She tried in vain to hide it —
Her portrait sketch of me!

Belinda, flustered, fled the scene,
While speechless, I looked on.
She left behind her sketchbook,
Which I then seized upon.
I leafed through all the pages
To see what else she'd drawn.

Her sketches gave me quite a start,
For there on every page,
I saw my own true likeness!
It did not take a sage
To work out that she loved me,
But could not quite engage.

I tried to find Belinda,
But learned she'd moved away.
I wish that I had told her
I'd loved her from the day
That we'd first said hello.
Now nothing's left to say!

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Copyright © Robert Haigh 2017