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.
Comments
When I painted, I used to wear more than put on the object to be painted.