Splashes of umber –
hints of Prussian Blue;
Chinese White –
murmurings of Madder Pink
carpet his floor.
An open window –
a torn, lace-curtain
shimmies with the breeze.
A model, draped over
a green baize settee;
his deft hand following
each line, every contour
of a curvaceous silhouette,
leaving nothing
to the imagination.
A butterfly
trapped in a jam-jar
of multi-coloured hues;
the one he uses to rinse
his myriad of brushes,
lets out a scream,
heard by only she...
sets it free to the wind...
as it flies directly
back into the room
and lands,
on his wet-in-wet
creation.
A Painted Lady
by definition; of name
and indeed of nature.
Belying freedom
is a thing with wings.
The picture, sells
for millions.