the painting was literal
figure hunched walking a dirt road in rain
its hues and tone spoke
mute but vividly
each brush stroke matched the images birthplace
in the authors crippled heart

each leaf a burnished gold of autumn
each a dying fragment of the withered tree
even the mans footprints in muddy soil
one can almost feel the squalid mud underfoot
his uniform and helmet named him a frenchmen
from the great war
his boots rendered with bloodstain

figure hunched walking dirt road in rain
a great dying had come to france that day
swords drawn they charged into deaths embrace
this man and his comrades in this awful place

the painting hangs in some museum
an awkward moment for the viewer
is he going into the storm of battle
or going home after
the tale is left untold
it is just the tale of a man on a road in the rain
a frenchmen in the world war
a lone figure in rain