A model sits motionless with diaphanous drape, <br />The paint in tubes, lies waiting for an escape, <br />An easel's standing, so central to the room, <br />On it a canvas. And nearby in the gloom, <br />An Artist leans casually against an open door, <br />Been thinking long, but now crosses the floor, <br />Pulls back the blinds to let the light rush in, <br />Adjusts his spectacles and prepares to begin, <br />Then with a flourish of his artistic brush, <br />Starts slowly to create a picture that's so plush, <br />A Work of Art maybe, perhaps an important one, <br />Which might see his name in lights, when it is done. <br />Needing to observe, he lifts his eyes to peep, <br />And finds that his model has fallen fast asleep. <br /> <br />© Ernestine Northover<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-artistic-brush/
