His hand seizes no brush,
What he has is dish alone.
There came a deluge –
A surge of days
With lovely clatter of voices.
Eggs tousled,
There’s a perplexed question within.
Amused by her doll,
That little one.
His weeks-old pant
Now rowing incessant,
Famished for something.
A trance of canvasses stretching,
Where there’re outlines
On ocher-soaked linens,
Earth-dug umber, sienna, yolk yellows,
Wet, oily and waiting to bleed
Thick and gummy from the brush.
In his veins,
The scent in ether enthralls him –
He was lightheaded
leaves me lightheaded,
Daubed and anointed
By the deity he has filched from.
Now the baby cries,
Sodden, smells like a milky cotton
Sopping every minute up,
Those implicated hours.
He’ll spill years
As the earth alters his faces.
Greens of summer,
Tarnishing into autumn..
And in winter, the north light;
Grasping firestorm
In the braids of the medium’s hair.
(9/10/13 @xirlleelang)
