He brushed her curves –
she was soft at the edges,
and he tousled
voluminous, titian hair
with master strokes,
yet a thirst slurped the water jar
and her face would vanish.
He could hardly bear to paint her,
but he did, despite lapsed
time dotted like small flecks of acrylic
on a palette stained with red wine;
interludes of rage and darkness
and heartache’s brittle impasto
would smear the bleak canvas
where her porcelain face should radiate.
A sigh fell over the blue wash of the Rhone
while he watched memories escape
with the wine – he loved her
to the edge, and he would paint it.

Author: Anita Lubesh

I write poetry/prose/stories/short stories/verses for children/sketch/and have 6 chapters of a novel sitting there like that half eaten trifle in the fridge or bottle of Jack Daniels because something makes you afraid to eat it or drink... right now.. I am a proud Geordie from England's northern hemisphere and the beautiful city of Newcastle upon Tyne. I live with my lovely husband who came all the way from sunny California just for me, and my favourite animal, Bobble, our dog. I am a member of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth and wish we could all do more, especially today, when such a lot is wrong.

9 thoughts on “Titian”

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