IT STARTED WITH A BLANK CANVAS

IT STARTED WITH A BLANK CANVAS Come lay your paint on me, it pleaded I’m here in this garret, naked and cold So what could I as a sensitive artist, do Except comply, dabbing shades of blue Reaching for indigo, as if I’d been told Then pausing, to hear what it needed Canvas relieved it was no longer blank Stood there proud, and eager for more As if formally bloodied in its first hunt And so pleased, I almost heard it grunt To win this creative battle, if not a war For every new daub, the muse to thank Coloured layers, streaks and a smudge To which even a rainbow might defer But now an abstract image has its day It now had a life of its own on display And for myself, expression is the spur Unpainted areas still bearing a grudge Both the brushes and I played our part The canvas with a coat of many colours With a final flourish, it is finally signed And now it seems to have its own mind It’s access for all, with raised portcullis Now a painting, perhaps a work of art