The Gift Lost In Transit

I took up painting less than ten years ago
and greatly enjoyed it. I had read art books
for decades and long been absorbed
by the way shape and colour, usually in oils,
blended to create memorable images.
When I started I was nearly self-taught
and I had the enthusiasm of a convert.
I felt renewed by how the process filled time.
I particularly like the paintings that 'failed',
-this left me more to do to finish them.
My hero in paint was alive in my lifetime
-Syd Barrett - a free-but-fragile-spirit
who's talent was never tied to money.
I even wrote about his brief period
as a popular writer/musician.
By accident I manage to sell one painting,
equaling the record of van Gogh-
the buyer asked my closest friend for it,
and some other pictures found homes
on the walls of friends houses,
whilst existing in versions online.

But six months ago I had to move,
and leave behind the spaces
I had set up to paint in. Until recently
I did not have had time to paint.
But every time I have set up and tried
in the new space I feel like a child
faced with a meal who is just not hungry,
and does not know why....