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Brush The Fields Lightly
Striding mile high, like a god;
Wand in hand but humbly shod;
Bear your easel, bravely plod:
You brush the fields, lightly.
Losing hope, another start;
Fading petals fall apart;
Heady strokes from heavy heart,
You clutch your faith tightly.
 Flying
through Catherine wheel skies;
Priceless dreams that no-one buys;
Absinthe on canvas, starry eyes
Distil the dusk nightly.
 Place your easel,
plan the scene;
Sketch the wheat, the paths between;
Skeins of crows a darksome screen,
Change point of view, slightly.
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