The Painter Poem by Fiona Burgess

On the edge of a dream
She sits and waits
For the light to turn
Just right.
Her masterpiece is near completion
For eons she has sat in this place
Waiting each day
To catch a few seconds
Of light.
The sun slowly descends
Her heart quickens
Her hand hovers over the brush
The colours are ready.
Every fibre of her being
Wills time to to hurry
But time, being time
Knows no haste
The minute will arrive
At it's pre-ordained pace.
There, now,
Her brush blurs with speed
Colours within colours
Layer upon layer
She sits back and sighs
With pleasure -
Another perfect sunset.
She is the painter
And the world is her canvas.