<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Creative Man <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\n<\/strong>
\nOur first cramped council house
\nwas taken up by the mahogany
\ndining table my dad used for a desk.
\nI remember beautiful fountain pens;
\njars of cloudy water; coffee cups
\nspotted with ink.
\nThe way his soft shadows
\ndarkened across a dozen
\ncrumpled work sheets when I lost
\nmy way and started setting fires.
\nI wonder what he dreams about
\nnow that his life is still, waiting
\nfor an artist to study him. I\u2019ve been
\nmeaning to ask what happened
\nto the beautiful fountain pens.
\nThe pictures that made me smile.
\nMaybe I’m afraid
\nof the answer, I don’t know.
\nSometimes I think, if we had
\nthe money, I’d like to buy
\neverything he needs to start again.
\nAnd if he doesn’t want to start again,
\nperhaps we could find space for another
\nmahogany table. More pens and jars
\nof cloudy water. Hoping one dark Sunday,
\nwhen the rusty smell of a gathering storm
\nwhispers down the stairs, I will find
\nthe picture he was meant to draw
\nwaiting in the smoke of his absence.<\/p>\n