In rows, shining stems and identical, (almost)
spikey tips, grey. Where could each take me?
Their names gave nothing away : HB, 2B,
etc pointless as a road without scenery or signs.
To hold one, scrabbled from the sleek cling
of numbers was to hold a seed, a root, a waiting
to find itself on paper. I could release the core,
free it in a scribble, tame it like a horse
to ride my imagination, map unfolding thoughts.
Then I bought a 4B, by mistake. Broad. Strong.
POWer. The line became my partner
in new found certainty and nuances of smudge
dreams become 3D, leave their fingerprints on reality.
When you fall in love with darkness, life is never still
from reading Ewan's brilliant poem : https://www.abctales.com/story/ewan/pencils