Or… The birth of a painting.
Ideas swirl, confusion reigns,
There is something, something trying to emerge.
Mind storm percolates. Patience, patience, it will come,
It will rise to the surface, through the muddy waters,
Ready to be plucked, ready to bloom.
There! Grab it, yes!
It’s in the hand, half formed,
Waiting to be moulded, brought to life.
Its basic essence is laid gently
On a Snow White bed of stretched cotton,
Cold and barely breathing.
The outline deepens, form emerges,
Breath is released, a smile grows.
Hand reaches out,
Selects the tool that will help bring life, and depth, and colour.
Tastes the life giving substance and applies
The First Stroke.