I couldn’t sleep that night. It was as though my mind
Flowed and flowered, full of infinite possibility
Back and forth, back and forth,
All because I was turning a white door blue.

Was it the concentration that charged my mind
As I levelled the brush beside the door’s bumpy window?
Do not smear the glass. Do not breathe.
Just turn the white door blue. Sky blue.

Or was it the satisfaction gained by at last
Choosing my space just a little:
Not a canal or a hydro dam, or Dubai,
Just turning a white door to blue?

Shutting out life for the two hours it took
To colour in that tired composite door
Of plywood, pine and old cedar
And turn the whole thing blue. For you.

After the second coat again I could not sleep.
The whole wide world was now lustre glow,
Semi gloss, or, to use more words from the tin,
In four weeks it would be cured.


blue door

6 thoughts on “Painting

  1. Oh dear, I still haven’t finished doing round the doors … I like poems that resonate as well as giving hope that there might be wider applications (another paint word!) for life.

  2. I have read and re-read your four poems. Each of them stirs my emotions or my memories in some way that I cannot explain. Just like your paint pot.

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