An Easel and A Quay

My measured stroke seems smaller,
but quicker by same measure.

An innocence long squandered,
as innocence must be.

Unrolled another canvas
and sat a new study.

I thought perhaps she liked me,
her legs she moved with ease.

I began,
but quickly saddened.
Still, I painted
the picture bound to be.

An innocence so brilliant,
colours that touched her,
my hand just seemed to know.

I paid her rather quickly,
she asked if she could see.

I smiled but said, "Come later,
much later in the day."



Brushes against the easel...
the paint had had its way.

Her innocence, those colours,
splattered across the canvas,
and tracked about the quay.

I walk a path familiar,
as I see her up the way.