The artist sits alone and lost in thought,
nature running rampant through his mind.
Trembling red-orange leaves on stately trees,
wispy clouds across the evening sky.
Seven million grains of golden sand,
veiled and fleeting shapes for him to find,
gently waving threads of silver green,
or fleecy clouds that shuffle slowly by.
A paintbrush neatly tucked behind one ear,
he sighs and draws his knees up to his chin.
His dark eyes scan the fading sky beyond
where the soft horizon meets the sun.
A whisper here, a teardrop falling there,
a restless storm, harsh raging from within,
A young doe gently poised upon the bank
and keenly watching till the day is done.
And with these vibrant images he sees,
fierce imagination takes the reins.
The leaves become the graceful ships of elves,
the clouds a bed where gentle angels rest,
the sand, light amber hills of waving corn,
the swaying, shining sea grass, silver streams.
The whisp'ring wind, the weeping, windswept skies,
where Aphrodite makes her flowering nest.
And from his mind the vivid pictures flow
down his arm and to his steady hand,
run out on ivory paper, swift and bold
to edges far beyond a mortal's sight.
For endless hours he works, and stops not once
while capturing the mystic faerie land.
He then sits back, surveys his lonely work,
and finally is alone as deepens night.