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.






Comments

Suze said…
There is so much beauty in this post, I ache.
Lisa Southard said…
It 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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