Draft Poem

Another draft poem, this one really needs work…


You are the swirls
of blue, of green,
of the yellow
that rounds off in the sky
on my brittle surface,
to be followed with a smooth
white, a dappling in the upper
hemisphere, with the care
of a child measuring
water between two cups.

It dries.
I let my fingers feel
those rough edges, abrupt
ridges rising from
that solid canvas
of peindre-en-peindre,
a mountain of crossed
sweeps and laced strokes
found beneath our
favourite outdoor retreat.

There are turns,
double-backed swoops
that catch in the churning
of the clouds where we tried
to fix, to address, to cure
those maladies that wept
up between us like boggy
marshes sweating,
suffocating the pines,
the willows, the grasses.

It sells.
The window to my world
now sitting tenuously
on a shelf somewhere,
to be viewed, enjoyed, shared
when in company,
or drawn on with a felt tip
by a toddler dreaming
her tomorrows in the blue
green and yellows of yesterday.



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