The easel

DRAFT

I step out. A shock of pink daisy petals 
colours in words, a letter to the 
golden morning.

Over there, the fairway sand dune 
and the Garden Warbler green 
of the 17th hole has a single shade. 
The relief comes in the copse, dappled
houses to brown foxes.

A black bird, bright yellow billed,
prances with a look-at-me wink 
in winged ballet, then flies off. 
The more charismatic 
robin sound tracks red breast 
tunes territorially.

A starry night lies in far 
away places, town light 
and cloud fade their glory 
where only tubes of paint can 
re-discover at the artist’s 
loving hands*. (Chased by 
a couple of glasses 
of Jammy Red.)

Song brushes in palettes 
of black bibbed Coal Tit, 
striped feathers, 
spots of white. 
The Blue Tit is more 
portrait gallery, with blue cap, 
lines of dark mascara, 
yellow trousers.

The easel of words rescues the sky 
a Van Gogh blue, seeing movement,
something deeply intimate, quite ordinary.

*Vincent, Don McLean

Photo by Prashant on Unsplash