Impasto

On the painter's canvas, his colours are commonplace.
His fingers calloused and worn,
Holding his brush with tender care,
And each stroke tracing the mundane.

In the quiet of night, shrills of the day,
He discovers grace in the everyday.
No grandeur or opulence to boast,
A subject he finds himself painting the most.

A bowl of fruit, a towel hanging over a chair.
A weary face, heavy from the weight of time.
A vase of semi-wilted flowers, orchids.

In his eyes, all these things are quite fair.
For the mundane has a beauty that's rare.