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
Copyright © Grae Wall | Year Posted 2021
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