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The Painter

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With a soft brush the size of a broom,
he paints like a gusty wind
from within the pages.
Slapping clear liquid onto flat line art,
at his touch,
things come to life.
Colour is pulled into inanimate items
and they grow defined,
take on mass,
become tangible units.
Rich oak table laden with food —
massive fruits bursting with juicy ripeness,
fragrant steaming bread,
roasted chicken with crisp golden skin.
A pencil-sketched fireplace
becomes a fire-cracking hearth,
Velvety sofas are piled high with fleecy cushions
adorned like Indian women in vibrant fabrics.

I want to suck in air at the wonder,
but my lungs cannot breathe.
Looking down at my hands
I am startled to see
stark hue-less fingers
with black penned borders.
I have no depth!

As I tarry
I nearly miss
the painter bounding from the room.
Somehow then,
without moving,
I am outside
watching broad strokes
turn featureless hills into green grass-filled mounds
from which leap grasshoppers and butterflies.
Wildflowers open
in a myriad of rainbow shades, shapes and sizes
mingling sweet perfumes on a gentle breeze.
The sky becomes a cavernous blue
alive with swollen, cottony clouds.
Trees lift their leaf-filled boughs,
shaking their crowns as if waking from some long sleep.

Then,
without warning,
the painter turns to me.
Startled I fall back
onto the sod
and gaze into the fathomless sapphire heavens.
I hear his steps approach and his shadow falls over my face.
I see him smile as he lifts his brush,
poised to wash me.

Then
without knowing how I know,
I recognise his face
as mine.

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GloPoWrMo2020bDay Four NaPoWriMo 2020

Day Four Prompt:
Write a poem based on an image from a dream.

 

honeywater dream

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honey water dream

 

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Magnetic poetry.  Because today I have to borrow words.