Watercolours
of finished fisherman,
eyes bright
with brushstrokes
of aqua-blue,
given goldfish pupils,
and draining, seeping garments,
backed by bursts,
salt-watered waves.

No.

I am for the fences,
the stone walled ledges.
I am here, like the King,
for the gold gilt borders,
those intricate
woven edges.

Peripheral parallel,
herding back in silence,
landscapes of thunder,
stampedes of wild Ponies,
still life sacks
of spilling cornflour,
spotted hay, a sunny bay,
and perfect, oiled,
summer days.

Damning all dreams,
surrounding the scenes,
to placate and demarcate,
with a single,
straight-faced
expression,

an ocean of hues,
mere mountains of oil,
piles of precious pigments,
magnifying, surrounding, raising,
a Mephistopheles,
of perfect angles.

Sitting at the side
of painted dreams,
balls and dabs, rubs
and strokes,
spots and smears,
it appears,
I fear,
that
like all things
I am also framed,
by a greater mystery.