ten past nine

i wait by the smell of the oils drying

and look at my fingers

think how the paint patterns of accident

look better 

than the offering on the board.

look at the lines drawn

in colour

on the fat side of my thumb.

The mount of venus

where all ideas of love begun.

they are still young, just weary

my fingers can easy bend 

and brush

but the ideas of shape and object are fussed

with years building them up into nothing.

i paint the folly tower again, flat sided and empty

i knew the mists blew through it as ghosts 

the strokes show the singleness of purpose

bold 

pushing emotion

making it happen

my hands control the hours pushing time forward

as i find the minutes too much to bear

the image is tired