The sound of bristle on canvas -
retreating surf skating the shingle -
the occasional tapping of a palette knife
churning the paint.
Waves of creativity swell with each stroke
flowing on the incoming tide of inspiration,
their sharp sighs longing for continuance
until their tired minds blind,
and the scrape of wood under water
runs rainbow coloured,
their fingers pigment stained, and shallow -
intense faces rippling
under the sinking sun light,
their canvases drying quietly
for the first time.
Sally A Mortemore 2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem