Edmund Crawley 20 November 2018



The artist’s pen sleeps in strained hands. Ink pots

In reverie form rows on stands. Why can’t

I make? A window’s view holds up to me

A cloth of rarest gold – a tapestry

of innocence as yet not stained. Scenes free

from ticks and tocks, and time a shoreless sea.


Yet all the gifts I dream choke in the nib.

Why do wonders so rich leave canvas bare?

A duty to create pounds at my ribs –

And wills me to re-make the world out there.


So be. Fate bore an artist made to see.

Art would (my secret tapestry) deform;

I’ll rest, like moths who shun all air that’s free

Upon high sills. I’ll dream alone, but warm.