The Artist

From my window, I see him. Squalls of wind wire his hair, charcoal snaps and smudges between his fingers. The tide churns debris to the sands. He reaches for another piece, measures the rocks, huddled together, where tide meets shore sky, the water. The iron colossus of the pier grinds in the gale, gulls screech; he paints their feathers, soft, ethereal, ghost-winged. Paper buffets in the breeze - he nails it, flapping onto a board, with pins. His skin’s ruddy. He wrestles with the canvas, a boy bringing in his kite. My words paint his character submerged below the surface. He’s at one with this corner of the world. Words roll with the surf, then crash and burn. Suzy Davies, Copyright 2020. All Rights Reserved