The Painter

I was walking home from College in the week, and saw a painter sat on a church-yard wall...

Within one of the many furrows along the

Old stone wall, he sat

With his back arched, so that paint-soaked hands

slacked upon his knees.

After enduring yet another tiresome and impoverish

Day on the site, his

Clothes were crusted with a drab, dry medley

Of emulsion and under-arm varnish.

But behind the wall, the church stood; a rise against

a cloud-splattered sky.

Looking up brought the welcomed unease of artificial movement.

But his legs still felt the

Chill of the dry stone he sat on. Bare bottomed boots,

Stripped clean of a soul

Were relieved by this stop along the journey home, where

He could sit to watch the day, and tomorrow, go by.

Author's Note

This is my first crack at the poem. Let me know what you think and give as many suggestions as you can. Thanks for reading.

Reviews

[Hatchling]

Nicely done