Like artists
On a clean sheet
Of stark white paper
we map the world
Small at first
dark outlines
pushing the pencil
deep markings
metallic trails
of the certain.
We branch out
into sketchier dreams
the swirls
of future plans
eraser marks
and fresh rubbings
the silver smudging
of change
on hands and wrists
Only when we think
It's all perfect,
that we have our eyes
on all the shadows
Will someone spill
Sunday morning tea
Staining it,
ageing it,
Then we colour over
the lines.
