Papier-mâché
Drab weather, indeterminate, damped, that's how it
seems, looking out. Indoors smells of spray paint. A cold air stream runs from
the door to the open window, brings an earthy edge.
Dog is pacing.
Metallic-sticky hands wipe down the front of the old smock: a pause to count:
twenty years, or more or not much less, of paints layering over blue cotton.
Hung up now with silver sparkles drying, a clodge of glue, old colours flaking.
Heavyweight rain drummles the lean-to roof. Waterproofs are pulled on. Four
oversized papier-mâché baubles glimmer in the cool living room, secretly
stuffed with sweets.
Dog is prancing.
On green wooded paths, precipitation gives a rich shine. Winter's kingdom is
deceptive. It blurs and covers. Under the surface life waits, curled in seedpod
wrappers.
Dog is both ecstatic and replete.
There is so much beauty in this post, I ache.
ReplyDeleteIt is a happy thing, to live in the moment- not impetuous exactly but aware and appreciative and open to beauty xx
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