![]() The rich soil crumbles through the yeoman's fingers. His world: a rented room, and turpentine. The window gapes as he inhales his world. The white light in a northern sky is silent. The paint has edged along the brushes' handles. The twisted tubes, the fresh paint squeezed and smeared across the dry on his palette. Standing with him in the room the rearing canvas stares back with tentative shapes halted in their growth, moving in a new rhythm from floor to ceiling. The love of the painter standing alone and staring, staring at the great colored surface he is making. Pulse, power and universe sway in his body. As he holds himself to the ocean's faery floor, one hand clasped to a bedded whale's rib, he is complete and infinite. ![]() Born as a plunger into the deeps he is at one with every swarm of lime-green fish, with every colored sponge. His world of pearls and tendrils and his breath at his breast. ![]() The love of the diver for his world of wavering light. For the world of their center where their lives burn genuinely and with a free flame. It is the love of a man or a woman for their world. ![]() “There is a love that equals in its power the love of man for woman and reaches inwards as deeply. ![]()
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