Wo Licht ist, ist Werden.
Schelling

The oak panel leaning on the easel faces away from view -
a tilted upper case Alpha. As always
the beginning is shrouded in darkness.

Its shadow falls across sun-drenched floor boards
which are infiltrated by woodworm
writing the endless genesis of anobium punctatum.

The artist against the back wall is no more than 23
and no taller than an index finger,
dressed up, it appears, by travelling clowns

in lace, cambric and slouched velvet hat,
a proper dandy, were it not for the hob-nailed boots
peering out from under his robe.

Only the tools of the trade: mortar and pestle,
plank table, palette on a hook
instead of Persian carpets, fruit bowls from Delft,

no mappa mundi but outlines and faint marks
of unknown territories, river beds, caravan routes
on the discoloured whitewash.

A paint brush is poised like a surgical blade
about to make an incision in the heart of the world
in undying hunger for more world

on a canvas small enough to vanish inside my briefcase
together with panel, artist and brush -
the knife that dissects the shadow.