He plays music
to bring it into being
like birth
and puts out his hands
this way
then that
leaves it alone
gets to it
leaves it again
washes a brush in a wine glass
downs it, seconds flat
then, watches it take form
lets it lead the way –
a mountainscape in colour
its hues push outwards
its ridges bold here
soft elsewhere, another
you wonder if it’s like
playing chess, and
try to see the precision,
or if it’s accident
in his vision
see what it is he shows
without saying
it’s fine to
make it up in your head –
perhaps you wouldn’t know
otherwise where to
let your eyes tread
and it’s not a secret
but you wouldn’t ask
how it feels to colour the world
to revel in the making
and unmaking
the way colour can unfurl
each hue a rung upon a ladder
he climbs with ease
like falling upwards
and how he longs for colour now
his fingers itch,
harder to ignore
a feeling
stronger
than it ever was before
ataraxicat 