Sunday, 18 March 2012


The paintbrush flicks, lines form.
The smell of wood smoke in the breeze,
Robins sing each shade of green.

A canvas glows in the lifeless room.
Damp smell of early rain
Above the city street.

The sirens howl outside.
Anonymous taxis clog grey streets
With heavy-hanging smog.

Inside the paintbrush rests
On a flat green valley
Nestled between hills of rolling lime.

Silvery pools of rain,
Shallow in their patterns.
The blue sky, lilac cloud.

Washes. Expanses.


Morning mists surround
fruit trees with sweet apple
and citrus scents,
florals carried in the breeze

of sunny vineyards.
The freshness of berry
ripening in the air,
as the sparrows sing.