The relative

As he sits and captures all  
Half finish works scattered round the floor    
Artist with a pallette full of joy    
Wry flattery in each new face    
Each wrinkle smoothed will pay its way    
   
For this maiden he prefers a willful look    
Windswept locks and head half turned    
Each feature wrought in pigments churned    
She died so young, so in her bloom    
And at her feet the laurel wreath, it rests askew    
   
The wane of life, a tenure fractured    
A frame of worship from all the tatters    
From the wheel-horse of the easel's propping   
A likeness when all else has been forgotten    
For our future needs that wadding    
   
Give us form when we are nothing    
Weave a testament just more surface dressing    
And look on with dusty sentiment    
 Recognise a slight resemblance    
Carried down throughout the centuries  
A portrait of a relative deceased