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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.