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I dipped into an opal day
Fine watercolour painting
Mauve bruise that could have slipped away
As morning chores lay waiting
A stolen hour to study sky
The blurring layers of whim
A canvas for each cabbage white
To lose itself within
Sheep grazed on blades of jaded grass
Bright beetles scaled tall stems
To mine pale ghosts of summer’s ask
And harvest final gems
Calm sat beside me, as a friend
Staid arm around my shoulder
We walked back gently, in the rain
The day, a little older.
Meaning
I wrote this poem this morning as I was out on a walk. I returned home and tweaked it.
Most days that floor you with their beauty, are bright and sunny - blue skies, yada, yada….. So, how marvellous to feel that same awe upon stepping into something more morose and brooding. Today, I did.
I went outside and felt bowled over by the hues I saw. On the surface, a moody grey casing, but it carried so much depth within. My imagination leapt to opals, pearls….. Damn, I turned into Bob Ross - except, I can’t paint.
Then, the air, so rich and still. I can only describe it as being the perfect weight, neither light nor heavy, a comfortable cashmere blanket for my aura. And suspended in it with me; a deer, a lone ladybird, a pair of flimsy cabbage whites……. I experienced myself as deliciously captive in an edifying rural tableau.
And isn’t it wonderful when such a thing happens and you are so turned on to it?
I think so anyway, and I hope you enjoyed me conveying it to you.
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