Your gift,
a spark that wants to flame,
creates in me desire
to craft, to mould and shape
with care,
to formulate and manifest
bright unexpected rainbows.
Unseen colour swirls,
untasted flavours tingle,
and duty throbs like craving
with dignity
as if a new paintbox waits
right at the height of my reaching,
brushtip poised.
And cool spray on joy
draws my eye back to page,
the white waiting,
a necessary empty,
a true shroud
into which I sink enfolded,
soliloquy of silence,
no paintbrush,
tender canvas.