There are pictures still to paint
And poetry to write.
Reclusive, but not a saint.
Just fending off the night.

Though the sky is black outside
Light shines within.
And the door is open wide
To let my lover in.

I work with pen and brush
To stave off waiting time.
All around there is a hush,
While searching for a rhyme.

Just the cat gives a response
To my lonely speech.
I didn’t have to wait so once
Nor have so far to reach.

The world which stays without
Can wait in vain for me,
For there is no longer any doubt
That I ever will be free.


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