Marky

 Marky Robinson 

Marky would come then go

Conceal for months then show

Unable to stay for long 

Then unable to keep away. 

Tossed like a cork on the sea of life

Living homeless but with many beds

Painting for his supper

Drawing when needs required. 

Obedient to a higher call

Serving his art above all

Too many works and yet too few

To realize their true value. 

He traveled far and yet

Tethered to his native land

A student of the school of life

A master of the lonely hour. 

Women in shawls, boats and houses

Simple, distinctive and authentic  

Clear and honest lines on the pages

On paper, cardboard and wood. 

A self taught artist who first could see

And then could paint with honesty

Clarity of line and structure 

Usually serene and poetic. 

Mostly huddled Irish peasant women

In front of Connemara cottages

With sailing boats on seas

On cloudy evenings after the storm. 

A vagabond life that none could copy 

A tough old road that few could follow

A life lived in all its seasons

Faithful to his muse when called. 

Born in Belfast, where the road ended, 

He returned back to where it started

Rootless yet tethered, 

Living and dying, leaving a mark.