The Palette Knife - a Dedication

By Deborah R de Souza

A sheet of canvas, empty, blank,

Tells us nothing of its role,

Or origin, or purpose,

Lies on a table, flat, no goal.

A glance at the corner, and there I see,

The palette-knife shy, alone.

It’s touch firm, and easy grasp,

The blade still clean, the tip forlorn.

Across from it, a box with paints,

Of shades, of oil, just still.

I look at the knife with curious eyes,

Can it with life, the canvas fill?

With colours of choice, like an orchestra ready,

The knife tip sets to blend,

With red on one side, yellow on the other, 

The music begins to ascend.

The knife starts conducting,

The paint ready to mount,

As gently I move its blade about,

Soft strings rise up in sound.

I use the tip, to mix, to blend,

Then dot colour onto the page,

From there begins flowers of hue,

Like dancers prancing on stage.

Mixing tool into colour, like instruments blending, 

The knife changes paint into image,

Twisting its blade, reaching its peak,

Composing a landscape on page.

As colour meets canvas, again and again,

A backdrop of dusk unfolds,

The knife presses colour into laughter and play,

Filling hue with the young and the old.

Pastures of green spread vast and wide

As mountains breathe out their grandeur,

And still the knife shapes and scrapes,

Still wielding out life’s splendour.

The knife, now worn, is reluctant to stop,

It’s desire so strong to create beauty.

But I put down the knife with a grateful heart,

Admiring its brilliance, embracing its symphony.

By Deborah R de Souza