The paint moves from brush to canvas

In laboured strokes with a hesitancy

Fraught from the initial wounding of

The  pristine white canvas necessary 

In order to with hope time and serendipity

Bring forth an object to my satisfaction 

The process moves from tension through

Caution to abandon as my self emerges 

In the nascent image slowly evolving

On the canvas on my brush and in my soul

Those cautious tentative bands of colour

become savage thrusts and fearless swipes

The blocking done the magic begins

The brush mixing subtle hues without

My conscious thought or action

More deft now well beyond my norm

A spirit has stolen my paints and brushes

It’s creation is now being formed

I am a spectator of myself no longer

In control but a mere automaton 

Whose movements are quite remote

From my initial understanding

The image becomes its brilliant self

In wonder I ask from where it came