paul rowlinson

The Creator

In the shed
There are clouds
Wrapped in cellophane,
Stuffed up in the rafters.
A mountain is in progress
On the bench, by the door.
Tins of paint;
More colours
Than you could imagine.
All the elements
Stacked up on shelves;
Dusty, faded labels.
A bin in the corner
Bulging, overspilling;
Mistakes,
Mutations,
Misshapen trees,
Melting glaciers;
Lost causes,
Beyond ecological repair.
A yellow lake spills out
Onto the floor
Thick with rock dust;
Footprints
Have been left.
The radio is on.
The News,
As it happens.

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