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A canvas.
Great when you unwrap it,
But scary.
Pristine and fresh
(But far from void
And not that innocent),
Early morning untrod snow,
A Virgin Territory
With no point of reference
(Yet)
But a new world’s borders.
And just don’t fall off.
A tufted brush
On the end of an arm
Hovers this way and that,
The first to appear,
A long-necked arrival
Looking for prey.
It jabs the cotton
And wipes its snout,
Smearing colour, a beautiful mucus.
The brush is marking its patch,
Cocking its leg in Viridian green,
But, fickle and twitchy,
It changes its mind
And daubs instead with a fresh new look,
A bright and terrible red.
The artist looks on,
But it feels like he’s only observing;
The brush is in league with his arm.
It’s looking dodgy…
The man is interfering.
Rational Thinking lurks in the background,
Waiting to drive a road through Eden.
Logic is ready, a truck full of signs,
Ready to trample
The gorgeous folly
Of rambling, glistening,
Clueless paint.
Just put that brain away.
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