The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us.*

The farmer let us into his old
Storehouse. Where food and
Goods had been stacked and hanging

Centuries ago, there were piles of
Rubble and memorabilia.
Half drunk and inspired, we filled

A bag with old objects. Brass scales,
Leather blacksmith protective glasses,
Razor blades and what not.

"Guess were going steampunk," you
Concluded, and I agreed.
We spoke briefly of bats, and

Retreated. Back home, the fire was still
Going. You sat down with your
Drink on the floor, arranging objects

Onto the canvas. Bronze spray paint and
A sharper eye for detail than I ever
Had. You nearly forgot to drink your

Wine, and apart from my applying some
Sealing foam and other handyman
Touches, it was all your creation.

I helped you to your feet -glass in hand-
And you stood there with a paint stained
Finger on your chin. Pensive; still working.

A part of me stumbled slightly deeper in
Love with you there, another took your
Picture in my mind, my eyes blinking

Like the lense of a camera, before you
Tilted your head against my shoulder,
Eyes not leaving the work in progress.

*"Don't you just love it? The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us."