The Artist
Brushes his cold, wet nose with fingers
Brave, Courageous, he ploughs the rain
Children in the sheltered shadows
Sigh, Chuckle, ''There he goes again''
To the Artist sound is absent, occupied with thoughts
Some wild, tamed, it makes his brain itchy
Writing, thinking, akin to poisonous alcohol
One, Two, four verse, ok now he's tipsy
Time to take the dog for a walk
Stephen Mc Elligott Copyright 2012
