Sunday, 3 June 2007

Patterns in time

He drew, since always, but he drew on ground that was wet with the smell of soaked mud. She drew too, what he drew; but her art was wavy and shades of black.
Each rain he stepped out onto a barren piece of land and sketched lines of purpose, lines that promised time. She sat a distance and drew lavish visions of gray. His seat by the river was her haven, only the colour of leaves changed. Lines burried deeper into snow as he walked to a promise. Lines burried deeper as she lingered to a hope.
His road back was blurry. The promise of time eroded his purpose.
She feared that she drew better.

6 comments:

  1. Interesting read so far. Lovin' your 'Sometimes' post.

    Take care.

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  2. Well, trying to keep it interesting...

    ReplyDelete
  3. The subtle nuances of imagery in your works is quite fascinating.

    ReplyDelete