Boxes packed and unpacked

a dismantled life;

bargained over

prized or discarded,

laid bare 

for closer inspection.

These markers that fill the days, the shelves 

the years.....

Are as nothing.

And yet

The paintings,

laboured over

heart felt;

speak of another time

another person.

One whose face could not be held.

Who asked different questions 


saw things

with different 


Now I ask myself

what drives me to put paint to canvas

What am I saying?

And I reply

That in the doing is the joy of being

and that


is enough.