The Painter
Climbing the dune,
wind heavy in our faces.
We squint (or do we smile?),
our laughs and quips
diffuse in the air.
Young legs carry you
ahead to the summit,
where tufts of green cling
to an existence. Then you’re
a sudden lithe silhouette
against a racing sky.
I revel in your victory;
your gentle hand hauls me
up close to ocean eyes,
an elfin smile, teeth
pristine like breakers
on the distant, crashing
shore, that white noise
filling our ears.
To look into you
is to look as men
have done for centuries.
Unchanging heart,
you’re the pearl left
nestling in filth.
So take a look –
can anyone steal time?
An hour here or there,
we leave our footprints,
no foothold anywhere.
I am the painter of this shore –
you are the model.
Again and again,
we return to wrestle
in familiar hues;
deep alizarin crimson,
yellow ochre, phthalo blue,
making it real. Stay in…
Ciscography 