Thirsty paper swells.
Pigment irrigates the nubby surface,
depositing brilliant silt;
fertile soil on the banks of the Nile.
Gems bloom at the end
of squirrel hair brooms
that swish and sweep the bubbles of colour into trees
and rivers, and cloud speckled skies.
But beware the heavy hands of gravity,
clawing the sparkling rivulets
into muddy puddles
at the bottom of the stillness.
#14
The sky is such a soft blue today,
like watercolour seeping from a loaded brush,
creeping across the horizon.
If I could I would lay my head
down upon its lap,
close my eyes, and drift
eider clouds tickling my nose
as they scud past.
I’d look down at naked poplars,
their skritchy-scratchy calligraphic limbs akimbo;
mute supplicants awaiting the slow explosion
of green ruffles and pollen confetti.
A time-lapse collapse into rustling
sighs but oh, my,
the sky is such a soft blue today.
Life is like a watercolour painting;
lots of pretty colours to play with
but work it too hard and you get mud.
Mud is like love;
soft and fun to play in
but it’s slippery and tends to leave stains.
Stains are like road maps;
clues to who or what we’ve been
but sometimes they smother beauty.
Beauty is like a watercolour;
glowing and capricious
but only a reflection of life.
#137
Linda Studley 