clasped in hand like a violinist grips his bow.
Awaiting the start,
of his colourful sonnet.
The painters eyes close,
a vision implanted appears in his mind.
The fields in the south of France,
recalled, in peaceful prayer for inspiration.
Mixing to create the hues that will bring to life imagination.
Dips into paint of primary colours,
dabbing, swirling, it begins.
Slowly stroking with cause, the brush feverishly flows,
behold an artists creation…
Lemon disc that hovers high in the sky brightly shinning down.
It’s light, warmth from the catalyst of life, the sun.
A river flows, shimmering gold over bolders cold.
As the earth drinks from its winding earthly cup accenting the ripe, red fruit that glows like fire.
Fields of berries in a crimson red,
a royal queens crown and her velvet gown, would pale with envy.
Peasants working, picking, baskets filling, the village community in all,
their hands lending.
Harvesting, a gift of the gods that man too, may taste its sweet nectar in celebration.
Captured in time, a harvest in this moment,
brings back to life.
in praise of The Artist who holds a brush against a blank canvas.