1974

His palette was every shade of grey Jet black one end snow white the other And never did a stroke touch the canvas Before endless moments of pondering Like a crow in a tree Surveying a frosted wasteland Then swooping with purpose Only when the prey was sure I would watch in awe Barely daring to breath As the landscape took shape In twists and swathes Delicate dots and bold waves Skeletal trees appearing Against a bleak winter sky Chimney smoke stains From a distant town Broken figures bowed Against the harsh terrain His head would tilt back In tense contemplation Fists clenched and eyes closed Summoning the strength To make his next move Awaiting the muse Inhaling the heavens Clutching for inspiration Then a sudden inhalation And a whispered sigh As his vision restored And the brush led his hand A world without colour The death of hope Questioning God himself Channelling his demons In exquisite form It was still dark when I awoke To the tinny clang of my travel alarm The bedroom cold And the day unwelcome