The Painter
The painter
The sky this afternoon was odd clouds
looked as ice-bergs floating on pink air
the seagulls kept their distance.
A grey wolf scratches on my door
I let it in
had a leg of lamb it ate it all then fell asleep
Then it wanted to leave and, I saw it disappearing
In the dim lit hall, I asked no question.
But made me think of a Russian painter who
painted the trees black with a red background
and you could sense wolves starring at you.
The sea in the bay is dark with white spots has
the Russian gone mad painting the sky and not
telling anyone. I wonder if his name was Kalovsky
not that I know but the name sound Russians.
I go back into the hall the wolf has gone but it
left a pile of dung as prove it had been there.
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