The colours of my new paintbox are labelled
not just red, blue, yellow, green,
but scarlet lake, ultramarine
and ochre.
The garish tin shines silkysmooth
as the inside of an eggshell.
Happy paintings decorate the
walls
- houses with five windows and
a door.
Sentry flowers line paths, and
roundy faces
smile broader than a yellow laughing
sun.
My favourite colours are deeply
cratered.
The lid becomes a viscous mess
of muddy daubs like blurred ideals
where hatred spreads molasses-thick
on streets.
The sun no longer lights naively
tinted flowers.
Beneath the cobalt sky, an umber
land absorbs
innocent blood: wounded children
wearing blue,
red and yellow, sob - half rescued
from the rubble.
In the search for truth I long
to use
clean primary washes for a pleasing
picture,
but choose from sombre palette
shades of khaki, the olive greens
and browns
journaling poverty, warfare,
grief.
Eithne Cavanagh Copyright © 2002 |