I'm a painter not a writer

I'm a painter not a writer
an artisan art-maker
splat-splashing my
concoctions Pollock-like
big and bigger..
See my multi-coloured
multi-layered landscaped
mindscaped pebble-dashed
scenic-dreams evolve..

My scent is oil glue turpentine
I need to touch rough,
feel my harsh beautiful tools of trade;
I am so hands-on -
I make my own palette
I abstract tide-washed
driftwood, flotsam -
filling my room with sea-relics.

See me disregard the rectangle
see my brushes big as house painter's
see my clothes turn into paint-stained rags
see me rave, see me rant
see me crawl around the floor -
see me stretch my stretchers
and the boundaries of my craft.

See me pastel-painting
at the water's edge, sea splashing
rain soaking the paper
soaking me, colours running...
See how the random seascape
appears as though by magic -
a happy accident,
a masterpiece after Turner,
selling for a pittance to a willing buyer..

But all a distant memory
now the Devon fish-woman is
washed up and muscle bound -
life-lines cracked and frayed
on stiff work-worn hands.
See the once-was has-been painter
creator curator collector
pack her wares into salt-bleached
boxes bearing her watermark.

And so it was and is,
my past the seashore-inspired art
my future a new set of tools -

and how strange to now be so
clean confined constrained
hands-free and tiny tiny hunched
and cramped; anonymous,
machine-speak tap-tapping
words to images, images to words
back to front non-tactile slow-burning..

how wrong it feels -
but write will have to be right
as sanity is all for the painter
mis-placed displaced replaced
taking on another guise...

how very different is this.