The Artist

The Artist pulled out His white, clean paper, and spread it out with His hands.

He took a single paintbrush, dipped it into brown paint, and drew a single, bare-branched tree. Lightly He illumined it, with other subtle colours swirled upon the brown. Shadows spread out from the tree's bole, fell upon a masterfully silhouetted snow-bound mountain. With one, two, three strokes, the Artist formed a mountain range, shadowed in blue and grey, and a snow cloud laying its weight over the cold, snowy scene. The Artist stood back, to view His handiwork: a painting of a snowy plain, relieved by one bare tree standing in winter light.

The Artist swirled His paintbrush in water, and selected a new paint. Gently, He set the tree budding with green. He touched the tree here and there with tender green, hinting at it's spring awakening. Swift strokes bloomed the snow to grass, and He selected other colours to add flowers abloom in the earth. In the clouds, He added the pale blue of the sky, and drew a ray of Sun. It touched the leafing tree, and cast a golden shadow on the grass. The Artist stood back to survey his work: a painting of a green meadow, crowned with an awakening tree standing in a gentle spring sunbeam.

The Artist chose now a darker green, and drew leaves outflung upon the tree's branches. He highlighted green leaves and brown trunk with splashes of gold, as though the Sun let fall drops of its golden glory to shimmer on the common land. Fruits bent low the branches, touching leaves to the grass. The Artist added tall grasses and taller wildflowers. The morning light of the spring sky now bloomed with blue, the deeper, sharper blue of summer. White clouds, as smooth and billowy as snow, accented the blue. The Sun reached the meridian, and starlings flew beneath its beams. The green grass blushed with hues of red, orange, and purple, full and happy with summer life. The Artist stood back to slide His glance across His work: a painting of rosy meadowland accented under the soft shadows of the fully leafed tree, all aglow with brilliant sunlight.

The Artist took up His paints, and added hints of gold, red, yellow, grey, purple, blue, and orange. The leaves he edged in gold, and added coin-bright leaves blowing away in a wind. The grasses bent low in an autumn gust, and shadows danced, dappled grey and green, beneath an enormous setting Sun. Clouds edged the horizon, flamed in the Sun's fire, changing the blue sky to lavender and grey. He took every colour in His palette, coloured the grass in all the shades He owned. A flock of geese filled the fiery sky, and their shadows ran in silver-edged dancing over the incandescent grass. The Artist stood back to peruse his work: a painting of fired meadow, shot through with beams of red, gold, and purple, and the tree crowned with gold and dropping coins of leaves into the air.

The Artist took His brush, and quietly slipped away, leaving behind Him, on His easel, His painting: Creation.