Easter Sunday Morning and the valley
black with cloud that hangs or feels like treacle
from the hills. Once more he scrapes the canvas
clean, or nearly so, and looks beyond the
window to the scene he thinks will serve him
well. Three days of passion and there's nothing
yet to show. His broad distemper brush swirls
down from right to left and leaves a trail of
darkly coloured paints. A change of hand, a
further swirl, before he scrubs more darkness
and the highlights disappear. A dry brush
indicates the upright for the cross, its
handle scratches in two arabesques. These
mark for him the way the body hangs.
New inspiration moves him, and a flash of
Gamboge yellow splits the clouds, allows the
sun to burst upon the scene. The minor
miracle... the major still to come. Not
long delayed: the arabesques have changed, no
longer mark the outlines of his clothes and
flesh, but have grown links between them. Formed a
ladder up to heaven? More than that: have
formed a double helix. Could anything
befit an Easter Sunday Morning more?
This is my contribution for today to Writers Island's NATIONAL POETRY's Free Writing Month.
A Happy Easter to you all.
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