Garret Life

White spots of paint on gold-rimmed glasses,
clothes familiar on another, not long gone,
fit your sturdy body, lopsided grin -
sometimes sullen, pensive,
are you in a bad mood today or what?

Talent-lucky, flurried,
your place in the plan well-sussed, 
projects crowd the attic - soon 
either you or the furniture
will have to go.

Self-expression easy, taken for granted -
no nine-to-five drudgery,
roof already there,
only days of pleasure where time is never
enough - filled with 
swift brushes of colour words
and stained-glass volumes.

Size blooms beneath your hand,
quiet activity grows like a plant from seed
to shape, to red and green, forming itself into
something tentative, something living,
unlike the lookers-on.

I have known canvas 
converse with you for weeks - I never told you
but once I peered past your door
was blinded by the star blazing there
and all your paint was bouncing and singing
raising such a rucus of colour and light
I was amazed you could work through the noise.

Your canvas spreads like immortality
a flat white square transformed by your rejuvenating hand.

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