A few poems
Perfection
The white and blue and grey mixed and separated
Mixed again, lighter, darker, not quite there
With the smell of turpentine burning
Dabbed onto canvas – doesn’t go;
Sent back for refinement, swish, blue
The sky remains white for now
No one has the bravery to fill it
To make a whole of the tiny test blotches
To be certain that the shade is right
Untitled
The glass panes of the half open window glistens as clangs and clongs
And tings and bangs rush in and through and up and down,
The clawing of a quill on paper sends chills as the bell tolls and the hum rises
Cool wind echoes, fresh, new, strange and the clouds wonder, lost
Clock hands are yet to turn
Days only a second – all of a year
When rain splatters, making puddles on the land
Lucy Webster 