Dandelion Clock

I am free as I fly on my dandelion clock 

High up in the sky, spinning and rising, 

Dipping and gliding

In the thunder thermals

Of the billowy cumulus clouds

One would think I was on drugs

Or somehow inebriated

By some potent elixir, but no.

Just as at Art College, abandoned,

I danced and lived in the 

Moment of creation

No elixirs - just pure joy.

It is much like the painting of a picture or the throwing of a pot, the singing of a song or the smelling of a flower. That moment of creation that involves the whole of one's being, body soul and mind, all concentrating on giving the expression its innate essence, its turgor, its dream, its reality, its poetic content made visible in the stroke of the brush, the turning of the wheel, the sounding of the song and the dizzying perfumes of the flower. 

Only those who abandon themselves to the act, I think one can say unselfishly, swallowed up in a quickening of the very ether of the body, can give that little extra something unexplainable, unfathomable, something that when the seer is seeing, perceives "art". Ann