So it’s a dreary December, the sun a low ember
behind ashen snowfall, when you see him bicycle by.

You know this guy! His paintbrush, you’ve seen it fly
as watery blues and greys create a feisty pigeon
perched atop a tarnished angel’s head.

His pedals rotate in slow-mo, one hand steadies
the handlebar and with the other, the artist grasps his heavy
canvas as he churns onward through the sooty snow.

You’ve seen him talking miles per minute while red paint
slashed out the cavorting grace of two horses, saddleless and free
in a generous space, leaving you (that’s his gift) to imagine
context, landscapes.

He’s put in his feistful years in your callous neighbourhood
and laughs through the fickle flash of art-collecting
nouveau riche, anchored by love (you think) and devotion to
unbridled metaphors.

So it’s more than reassuring to witness his zany progress,
a distant haloed fleck cycling through the snowy solstice
delivering art despite the twilight’s
falling ashes.