A Blank Canvas

A blank canvas, washed over with white,
Sat on an easel,
By the window,
Outlined by the light.

A painters brush, bristles thick and strong,
In a porcelain hand, teased the canvas.
With strokes across the length and breadth,
Gracious and long.

And blue and grey and black,
Swirled as thunder through the white,
Only cold colour remained,
No going back.

The hand that held the paintbrush,
Was a work of art itself,
Dotted with pastel pinks and purples,
And oranges like rust.

The sky was created and the stormy sea soon followed,
Waves rose high,
And crashed to foamy reaches,
Beneath the flitting swallows.

As each minute detail was formed,
With such intricate care and thought,
Something was lost within the artist's eyes 
A part of their soul was torn