The Artist’s Return

I burn, I pine

Dull, dead the tool, it lies

I long, I yearn

Idle is a stroke  so fine

Time is not a fool

The frozen hand, no disconcern


A coal smolders faint

In sorrowful bossom

Waiting, fainting, wanting

In marble face, no taint,

No trace of blossom

Passion, duty, laughter


Not gone yet, remains deft hue,

Ruby red, nearly faded now

Awaken, remember, begin,

Once more slew

The old, worked plough

Rekindle deft kin


I burn, I dip deep below

the yellow crest.

I pine, I stroke the robin’s

weathered breast.

I long, I open wide the palette

of once used zest.

I yearn, therefore the canvas,

with my brush, is


-Written 6 December 2010


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