The Art of Colour

Fast do the days pass, clouds
move east to west, south west
to north east, north to south,
winds are cold, bring breath from
the arctic lands, inhospitable
May.

I cut turf, I dig and plant,
I mark blank spaces, check
every day for green or small
curved shoulders burgeoning
through the black.  My hands
are rough and dry now -
no longer soft from indoor
work at a keyboard and
desk.

I rest today from labouring
like a field-hand - my body
is tired.  How the mind
races into all the places
I have been, like the sea
into hollows and holes
between rocks as it advances.

I can hold the past no longer, it
is earth under my feet, the
weight of iron across my
back, the bowed bone
it is lifted free from.  Hands

of time took it, whisper
of wisdom saying someone
else's will was done.  I had
the parchment but did not
understand the language -
only the feel of it in the
hand:  devised, made,
smooth, purpose-built.

I look out on green - the
lush hills, busy birds,
even starlings have come.
I till the soil, love the
clear fresh mountain wind -
my kin are in my heart
like a horn winds echoing
speaks of courage
and those who endure.

Life is only art and
all our paint on canvas
unique
and misunderstood.

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