I wait, primed, pristine, for the familiar, oft-known touch
of an artist with paint and brushes. Which of many will it be?
Will today bring long lanquid strokes? Will bristles soft,
fan out to disperse oily colours, in undulating loops and swirls?
Perhaps a pure red sable brush might appear, to blend and soften my edges.
Or will there be brisk impatient jabs from stubbier bristles?
This allows an impression to be left on pools of acrylic paint to point the way
to the vision. Then the pallet knife slices the air.
The cold, sharp metal, when wielded by a sure hand, builds landscapes,
forests, seas, and rivers with ease, so that no other touch is needed.
Artists have at their command, extensions of themselves within their tools.
You can then be transported to a world of their making, to sooth or stimulate.
So, squint your eyes, tilt your head, take a deep, soft breath, and see.
I am a retired Scottish septuagenarian. I began to write at the start of the pandemic, entering lockdown and the world of words simultaneously. I have many hobbies, but writing helps to fill an insomniac's dark quiet hours. I've been lucky enough to see various poems and short stories published, online and in print. Some of these publishers are Chris Fielden's “Nonsensically Challenged” (for charity), High Shelf Press volume XXIII, WinglessDreamer, Spillwords Press, 805 Lit and Art, Funny Pearls, Little Old Lady Comedy, Dillydoun Review, The World of Myth Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Superfast Stories, The Library Love Letter, DBA Wordslinger Enterprises.