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Her Blank Canvas

written by: Gavin Haycock



strange, somewhat, how an image can invoke a sense of aroma and touch
how an image can talk
of what has been seen already
yet is still unwritten, unsaid
an image of silk discarded, a thin line of crimson, raw umber leather
splashed with accidental meditations, a craving, a drop of scarlet cadmium
she loves

this memory stain being reworked, taking flight before her eyes
this sap-green streak of envy
this stirring of a near burnt-out fire, all embers, all ash

she layers so obsessively with her saturated desire
red wash, tidal surge of lingering
transient, translucent, dark stars
brief moments in light that will oxidize in time
she stands, he lies there being drawn out
touched by an interlude, a sitting
he recalls a finger held against the eternal might of
deep black currents at night, uncharted
she pulls him closer in her thoughts and lays a brushstroke down upon him
spelling out images with her fingertips across papyrus skin
these are my minutes, I give unto you
she tastes solace as it takes shape
ultimately, she frames it on her terms
knows one day this body of great hesitations
chromed, resolute, shadowed
will perhaps be near a door feeling
the drift of warm air from the desert
the lift shaft drop within an old building
the passage of time and people along a hallway
there will be empty bottles, discarded cigarettes
and clothes thrown over a chair at midnight
a leaning tower of paperbacks topped
by Roberto Bolano’s ‘Last Evenings on Earth’
her canvas will stare into the room, silently in solitude

Gavin Haycock

Gavin Haycock

Once a crime reporter, once a journalist and editor, then other things. Creatively, into poetry, crime fiction and short tales. A journey of many pages starts with words from one pen and all that ...
Gavin Haycock

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