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.