The artist bends over his bench in the window; <br />here he can deepen dark dusk into night, <br />create holy fire or shadows of pitch, <br />make a mist or a scatter of light. <br /> <br />The artist bends over his bench in the window - <br />inside, the stipple of needle on ground, <br />the bubbling acid, the stink of the ink, <br />the creak of the press as the wheel is turned round. <br /> <br />The artist bends over his bench in the window <br />bringing his image to its final state; <br />outside, the ripple of water and barges <br />while Rembrandt is drawing, is scoring the plate. <br /> <br />Rembrandt bent over his bench in the window <br />three hundred and fifty years past and yet still <br />his world is alive in this Amsterdam studio <br />in lines bitten deep for the black ink to fill.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/amsterdam-the-etcher/
