White paper
I cannot fill
My spindly, arthritic pencil hesitates -
considers
and then reclines, corpse-like
on the table
defeated and tidy.
White paper
an endless landscape of snow
a featureless expanse of possibility
so confident in it’s right to stay white
so perfect, so unblemished
and yet.. . . . . . .
White paper
is not able to tell me a thing
has not loved, has not hurt
will not struggle
will always be the same.
Red rose
bobbing in the window
ignites my brush, my hand
sets fire to my paper
like an autumn sunset
streaking across a tired sky
And in a flash -
I am grabbing green
and releasing red
and blobbing with blue
I’m bringing in brown
singeing with orange
yodelling with yellow
and parading my purples.
With a cracking crimson
I’m adding bold black
I’m loving my lemon
and starting to lose track.
And then, at last
with a flourish of light
I come to realise
My paper’s no longer white
So -
I do not mind
the grey stone, the grey sky
The diagonal rain
slanting into gravel and grass
For I know that
the earth will drink the rain forever.