FRANK AUERBACH AT THE TATE

Escaping as a child
from any weighted lashes
or hurts from the brown shirts
you are kindly lifted
on one of the last trains
to save you from misery
out of an unmentionable
graveyard of history's
great crime,
arriving in England
to discover your gift
as you paint all afternoon
by the sirens of thunder
amid all shades of rain
desiring a unique gift
in your deluged landscapes
of a romance with the world
that critics marvel at
with our big ben time
of a tower's great wonder
draped with a dowsing wave
at your hand and mind
amid a fountain of a soul's
residing hidden dreams
of flaming imagination
your eyes in a Blakean cast
of resonant fire
outliving the enemies of art
in the narrow streets
parting at London's backyard
in an unblemished toil
of colorful love
in buckets of paint
on a long body of work
covering the gated canvas
among uncovered fringes
of a last faded remnant
under the brightest tabernacles
of a final blood moon
with your miracle anointed oil
that will outlast our century
in brushes at the tall sun
now finally being honored
at the Tate gallery.