by Nick Gisburne
His moonlight sketches somehow came alive,
And all he had to do was sit and draw.
Triumphant, though he willed them to survive,
In time their shaded faces moved no more.
Amelia was never meant to be.
Impossible to bring such beauty back.
He woke at midnight, certain he would see
The love he lost, a ghost of grey and black.
A masterpiece, no ordinary sketch,
Appeared upon the paper as he drew.
Exhausted, spent, he saw that he could stretch
Beyond the portrait, into something new.
They found a man too feeble for his age.
Amelia, unfinished, filled the page.
