The white clay, tap waters and her stubby fingers.
She is ready to craft a masterpiece
She sits hunched over a worn wooden desk,
Staring, glaring at the ceiling waiting for an image to strike,
She sits and mixes the powdery clay adding small drops of water.
It quickly thickens into a solid paste.
She painting like a panther, her arms flex and relax.
She, moulding,crafting,pounding her soul,transforming the white paste.
The clay begins to harden and crumble through her fingertips,
She quickly puts watery thoughts into the paste,
But still it hardens, and silence creeps into the chilled room.
But her eyes are soon flaming with new thoughts;
Veins pulsing, blood rushing with vitality,
The heavy block of clay is tossed in the bin.
She stares into the crevices of her palms, desperately fighting off her loss.
She raises her small hands, free of filth.
Crooked smiles pinch her mischievous face,
The grinding,mixing and kneading,
Again,again and again…
Never had she been so determined
Her hands blue from the added dye
Her face glowing with renewed energy
She’s trapped in her tiny corner until her goal is reached,
The white clay scattered in clumps on the floor,
Some clinging to the wall.
The clock ticks for a hopeless hour
She is toying with the clay
Shaping it into vibrant coloured balls
Placing them on the windowstill, it begins
Faster and faster..
Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled, her hands released blue light.
She throws the stirring rods into the air
A loud roar bursts from her lips
She reaches for the balls
First the red, then the orange, the yellow, green..
Each moulded and pressed with her tiny hands
She’s still pinching and probing
Blending as her fingertips turn crimson
She’s pursuing, and then it is done
She steps back, crosses her arms and admires
Hopping and skipping across strewn bits of white clay,
She finally throws herself back, exhausted.
It is done.