I’d like to share a poem with you that I wrote some time ago — it’s called ‘The Artist.’ I had it published in a poetry book called Feathers, Dreams and Faerie Wings, which is currently out of print.
The Artist
The painted moon casts a glow,
from a darkened sky with mottled stars.
Among the trees that grow,
crouch sleek-coated jaguars.
Oil on canvas, her creativity sings.
Relaxing, poised with paintbrush in hand,
is a young woman with translucent wings,
and hair the colour of sand.
Her name is Ruby, like the precious stone,
I wonder at the reason.
A name quite unlike my own,
that she’s carried through many a season.
Her lips are red; cobalt blue her gown.
A flowing dress beneath gentle wings;
she paints with brow furrowed, concentrating — no frown,
capturing the details her muse brings?
There are no jaguars in the land she sees,
but then the canvas doesn’t know.
Stirred creatively, her mind frees and
she chooses what to show.
