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.

No comments:

Post a Comment