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.