Paintbrush

To and fro, to and fro -

Your brush, moving so steadily

I can count on it

To be there, always. With

A smell of White Spirit

That could knock a horse

And a spattered sheet at your feet,

Or wood chipping and a chisel

In your hand. Painting,

Filling in. Making good.

To and fro, to and fro -

Rocking me like a child

In your arms, small

Against your broad chest

And strong arms that are

So used to the flow of the brush.