All in a days work.

Where will my busy hands take me
Here at the end of the day?
They’ve worked since first light of
A long summer’s dawn
Until, as shadows now lengthen
The sky flames with sunset
And I put down my pencil
To say:-

How can I capture the pure golden
Light and the way it falls clear
On the sea?
Or sketch in the warmth of my
Feet in the sand dunes
Or the heat haze that swallows the
Bay?

I took up a pencil- chose soft over
Hard lead
The difference between detail and speed
As a moment is fleeting and doesn’t repeat
Itself, not in that same glorious way.

The act of creation is like playing God,
Though it never quite works out as planned.
For the eye sees something different
Than Nature intended or the hand
Doesn’t quite have the skill.

The shape of a tree or the spires
On church-tops, the turrets or towers
On a ruin of castle, all these and more
Get my fingers itching to try to explain
How I feel.

The clouds that were white fluffy
Chased fast on the breeze turn
Pink then work darker to violet hue
Now etches the chimneys, the tree-tops,
The skyline ‘til absence of light
Becomes due.

A pad full of sketches- some barely
An outline, while others worked over again
Reflect on a day’s labour of love.
So I now choose a pen
And attempt more creation
Though I still don’t know
Quite what to say.

Lisa Fuller. July 2009.