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The thin wooden brush dances lightly,
brown bristles splaying apart 
as they hit the water, slicing cleanly through murky and diluted liquid.

With a slight tap of the brush,
all residue drops 
from the thin stems of fibre.

It dances on the paper, swiftly and sweetly.
Such brisk movements contribute
to the thin slither of bleached tree flesh.
Lands far away, further than the mind 
can wander, sit blankly in front of me.
The rough rubble of rocks,
bumpy brush strokes.

Slender green trees,
smoother than silk on the paper.
Splutters of smoke upon brick houses
puff gently from my brush.

All in the form of acrylic paint, 
all in the form of my mind.