Perfect Picture – a poem

God saw what he had madetorn painting
And it was good.

The frame gave it away
Unique to the artist.

He could see the picture
He could see his own work.

He said that he could restore it
And I had to trust him.

He looked at his picture
Remembered how he’d painted it.

Work started inconspicuously
Gently cleaning the surface.

He looked for a long time at his picture
At the dirt, the smoke, the fingerprints.

But the tear was preventing further work.

Out of the frame with the tension loosed
The edges opposed.

Painstakingly he knit it together
Later came back, cleaned deeper.

The colours started to show again
As the day he’d first painted it.

He didn’t charge me
Did it out of love for his picture.

I look inside me at the picture in His image
And that mended tear reminds me of his love.

– with permission