The wash is plum red,
Trees and bushes are waiting to come to life.
But all seems lifeless there, dreaded,
Naught breathes and nothing stirs.
Roads slither from the painting off to the sky
A breeze coils around the canvas,
Shaking the meadows around
Unpainted leaves descend.
In expectation, to be painted back in place.
She is an incomparable artist,
Though her canvas stands as it stood a year ago,
With nothing but a water wash across the sightless white.
Sometimes I see her walking past,
Gazing from the canvas into somewhere beyond.
As though her inspiration for painting again
Lies far off, hidden.
Might it be that she feels trapped?
Vague and doubtful?
Only she and her painting knows.
Might her landscape be autumn?
Sleeping the seasons away
Only awakened by the stroke of her brush
Might it even be winter?
Frozen by torment
Only to be defrosted by turpentine?
Only she and her painting knows…
Her love for painting
Hides within the deepest parts of her soul
Hoping she would release her inner self
And paint her way back into life