Painting

How can a brush show the smallest creases in your eyes

As they gaze past the tree and into the sun

Full of life, strawberry jam and giggles

How magical it is to have the afternoon skies again

To see the clouds tumbling above us

Chewy, delicious and filling

They feel solid – like thick, white, crusted-bread sandwiches

Eaten at a picnic by the river

It is curious that with this new scene

The scream feels all but forgotten

Melted into swirling skies

The background music as tender as a ticking clock

No matter if we are late, or early for tea

Perhaps a painting changes with time and texture

Nothing real can truly be laid down

That is we we favour dreams

They can be black and white when we need them to be

Colour when we are feeling brave – and well

Perhaps what is seen can only be seen by you alone

As painter, subject or viewer

Not even a glance in the mirror is truly real

It morphs and bends with every movement

Sometimes gently, sometimes not

I would rather see us changing and growing

Outliving the image left in ink and words

Spilling over the pages and canvas

Becoming all that we can be.