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Brush Strokes

I watch morning creep and wish that
if I had easel and paint I too could
brush the sky, my own inimitable colour.

Morning is such a strange affair, my hair
a halo on hand painted silk pillows,
a Chinese print of implacable calm
captures my eye as it does each day.

After I have tie dyed dawn, I'll rise,
wise up from penny filled dreams -
inflation though will soon chase wishes.

I stand next to chrome and black plastic
as coffee oozes in an aromatic steam.
Soundless I make a cacophony of noise,
thoughts reverberate, slightly incoherent

to splash chameleon water to refresh the sky,
try to guess before the question is asked.
I think, I'll paint today an egg shell blue
and tiptoe, just, very slightly , reverent.

Poetry by Elle