house of happy

Life adventures in prose and verse. Explorations of places, people and words. Stories and fun.

Thursday, 19 February 2015

The Painter of Skies



Hey, there‚Äôs my heart. 
Pointing its cinders to the sky.


Several skies, many: 
the seven-days-a-week sky,
the infant rose, the nest of rusty scarabs,
the stormy and the lunatic, the rainbow,
the captive sky, the lattice-cloud,
the last teaspoon of honey,
 the lengthening dark.

Enduring, the heart
against the ephemeral every-sky.



And if it looks too black, 
Too spent, too wispy, 
That heart of mine...
Unmoved, unmoving
not enough alive:
Look again, love.

Come before dusk: you may catch me
 - fingers of charcoal, words for kindling,
ember-eyes,
lighting up clouds,
and swirling, brushing, weaving.

Quick,
there's much to do:
to fill the daily canvas of drab blue 
the tired white, the avenues of gray
with copper charms and flutes of fire,

to trace celestial dance steps
claret on cobalt
gold over cerise,

to rouse an exaltation 
of scarlet stories
and set them free 
to fly 
across your sky.


1 Comments:

At 22 February 2015 at 00:57 , Blogger magnus wolfe murray said...

Hey - there's my heart, painting my soul with her words, of our skies!

 

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