Painter of the Edgelands

She sits up late into the night,
Brushes cleaned and neatly packed,
In her worn wooden case from the old man’s market stall.

Fingers gnarled and twisted,
He’s long since daubed his last.
But in her he sees the genius he was before.

Morning comes and bags are filled.
Paper, paintbox, flask of tea.
A day of capturing beauty lays ahead.

She’s heading for the edgelands,
On the sleepy morning bus.
Seeking out the stories where the people seldom tread.

The painter sees things I can’t see.
Her eyes don’t work like mine.
Enchantment flows from brush and pen,
When skill and magic combine.

Off the bus and through the park,
To find her favourite scene,
Where the river winds beyond the gasworks wall.

She’s happiest on the fringes,
Where the town and country meet.
Painting ghosts of industry that few alive recall.

Her work’s so very different
From the textbook landscape scenes
Factories and chimneys are her fields and her trees.

She’s not Constable or Turner,
But her work speaks more to me.
It makes me feel something, and the old artist agrees.

The painter sees things I can’t see.
Her eyes don’t work like mine.
Enchantment flows from brush and pen,
When skill and magic combine.

Abstract lines on paper,
Give a guide for paint and ink
As chaos turns to order over time.

She slowly creates
As the hours pass
Her page a forgotten world of smog, soot and grime.

As sunlight slowly fades,
Wooden case is packed away.
A slow meander back towards the town.

She’ll be back tomorrow,
With fresh paper and paint.
To create another masterpiece when she sets her easel down.

The painter sees things I can’t see.
Her eyes don’t work like mine.
Enchantment flows from brush and pen,
When skill and magic combine.

 

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