Monday, 6 June 2011


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.