Cows, Clouds, Chairs And Cheese

Wednesday afternoon:
Cloud is foam on a dark sky: blows like spray. Wind in the broad oaks is wild music. Everything shakes. Even the dense perfume of the lyme trees is blown out across the field where the cows, overwhelmed, have lain down. In the garden, under the Perspex arches, heat gathers, pressures like a pulse.

Thursday morning:
Clouds are tall ships, moored, out on a Mediterranean blue. Wind furls. One small girl lies on a rug, counting aeroplanes, telling a dog not to chew stones, telling pirate tales to a plastic crocodile.

Thursday afternoon:
The renovator smiles. Her hair is dusted red from rubbed off rust. The first coat of paint was rushed, because of the quick darkening of sky. The rain did not transpire. The chair frames are drying in the back of her car. Weather can change. The brush is resting in white spirit. She forgets about the brush. She sits at the picnic table with her granddaughter: they make stories for aeroplanes.

Where's that one going?
To France, to buy some cheese.
And bread?
Yes, and tomatoes.
And he forgot the cheese?
He'll have to go back.


The Cranky said…
It seems the story gene has reached another generation.
Geo. said…
This is enchanting, Lisa. And he forgot to buy cheese? Yes, he'll definitely have to go back.
Jo said…
Very evocative. I like the idea of making up stories for planes.

When I painted, I used to wear more than put on the object to be painted.
Suze said…
I agree with Geo. And for some reason the plastic crocodile stands out to me as particularly nice.
Lisa Southard said…
He did go back for the cheese. And the chair legs are now painted. As are my trousers because I'm a bit messy too :-) Thank you all for your lovely words: I'm mostly engrossed in getting Chapter Ten finished. It's the last chapter of The Novel. Blimey!!

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