Speechless naked feet

Brush the boards

Where carpets are bare to tread

In threadbare pile

Of warm worn through

Early spring sun

Long legs languid and fair

With hairs that stand up

Feeling the fresh air rush of the tingling chill

Coming up through floorboard cracks

And the regular slap of skin against wood

As she walks in just an old man’s shirt

Running the fingers of one hand through her hair

Glasses balanced as she studies the painting

Through auburn streaks

That hang down

A wavered curtain flare

Whilst below the sounds of the city

The sounds of others not yet quite awake

Begin to vibrate across the rising river of sound

Outside

The juddering honking moving thrum of cars

Shouts and sirens

But all she hears are the notes and the rhythms

The melodies and words

That sink and rise

That float every day through her head

As once again she picks up the brush

And strokes the canvas

In a world that is hers

And hers alone