R
Robert Harrison
Guest
THE PAINTING
THE NIGHT IS FAR SPENT, THERE IS LITTLE REMAINING,
THE CLOUDS OF NIGHTS DARKNESS ARE FLEEING AWAY.
THE DAWNING SKY BECOMES AN ARTISTS CANVAS
OF BREATHTAKING COLOR, STREAKED WITH BRILLIANCE FROM LEFT
TO RIGHT. ONE STROKE OF HIS BRUSH, DIPPED IN BLUES, REDS
AND YELLOWS, AND THE ARTIST HAS TURNED THE SKY INTO A PICTURE OF BEAUTY.
TREES STAND OUT IN ALLTHEIR TRUE FORM AGAINST THIS
BACKDROP OF PURE DELIGHT, FOR THE NIGHT HAS NOT YET GIVEN
UP IT’S DARK TO THE MORNING.
HIGH UP, THE FLIGHT OF AN IRON BIRD CUTS DEEP ACROSS THE PICTURE, AND PINK
CANDY FLOSS FLOWS EVER WIDENING FROM THE WOUND.
WHISPY WHITE CLOUDS FLOAT ON THIS BACKDROP OF COLOR, THERE
THINNING TAILS CURLED AS WHEN A WOMANS HAIR HAS BEEN WRAPPED
AROUND HOT CURLING IRONS.
THE CANVAS, STILL WET, ALLOWING THE COLORS TO RUN INTO
EACH OTHER, DILUTING, AS A GOLDEN SUN RISES FROM ITS BED AND THE
BLUE OF A PEACOCKS EGG BECOMES ITS PLAYGROUND.
SWIFT BIRDS IN FLIGHT ARE STILLED BY THE BLINK OF AN EYE, FOR
THEY APPEAR SUDDENLY, AS IF BY SOME UNCONCIOUS ACT, THE
ARTIST HAS CARLESSLY FLICKED HIS BRUSH ACROSS THE PAINTING,
OBLIVEOUS TO ITS PLEASING RESULT TO THE ASTUTE OBSERVER.
ALL TO SOON WE ARE MOVED TO ANOTHER PAINTING OF PANARAMIC
VIEWING, STARKER IN ITS REALITY.
THE ARTIST WILL NEVER PAINT ANOTHER QUITE LIKE IT, AND SO THOSE
WHO WERE INVITED TO THIS PRIVATE VIEWING WILL STORE THIS PAINTING IN THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF THEIR MIND, LOCKED AWAY FOREVER.
THE NIGHT IS FAR SPENT, THERE IS LITTLE REMAINING,
THE CLOUDS OF NIGHTS DARKNESS ARE FLEEING AWAY.
THE DAWNING SKY BECOMES AN ARTISTS CANVAS
OF BREATHTAKING COLOR, STREAKED WITH BRILLIANCE FROM LEFT
TO RIGHT. ONE STROKE OF HIS BRUSH, DIPPED IN BLUES, REDS
AND YELLOWS, AND THE ARTIST HAS TURNED THE SKY INTO A PICTURE OF BEAUTY.
TREES STAND OUT IN ALLTHEIR TRUE FORM AGAINST THIS
BACKDROP OF PURE DELIGHT, FOR THE NIGHT HAS NOT YET GIVEN
UP IT’S DARK TO THE MORNING.
HIGH UP, THE FLIGHT OF AN IRON BIRD CUTS DEEP ACROSS THE PICTURE, AND PINK
CANDY FLOSS FLOWS EVER WIDENING FROM THE WOUND.
WHISPY WHITE CLOUDS FLOAT ON THIS BACKDROP OF COLOR, THERE
THINNING TAILS CURLED AS WHEN A WOMANS HAIR HAS BEEN WRAPPED
AROUND HOT CURLING IRONS.
THE CANVAS, STILL WET, ALLOWING THE COLORS TO RUN INTO
EACH OTHER, DILUTING, AS A GOLDEN SUN RISES FROM ITS BED AND THE
BLUE OF A PEACOCKS EGG BECOMES ITS PLAYGROUND.
SWIFT BIRDS IN FLIGHT ARE STILLED BY THE BLINK OF AN EYE, FOR
THEY APPEAR SUDDENLY, AS IF BY SOME UNCONCIOUS ACT, THE
ARTIST HAS CARLESSLY FLICKED HIS BRUSH ACROSS THE PAINTING,
OBLIVEOUS TO ITS PLEASING RESULT TO THE ASTUTE OBSERVER.
ALL TO SOON WE ARE MOVED TO ANOTHER PAINTING OF PANARAMIC
VIEWING, STARKER IN ITS REALITY.
THE ARTIST WILL NEVER PAINT ANOTHER QUITE LIKE IT, AND SO THOSE
WHO WERE INVITED TO THIS PRIVATE VIEWING WILL STORE THIS PAINTING IN THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF THEIR MIND, LOCKED AWAY FOREVER.
