The groan of the third step
Foretells our appearance
-pyjama-ed-
At the dining room door.
On the table, a blank canvas waits;
double dipper fixed to the dark wood palette,
filled with the smells that lured us down:
linseed oil and white spirits.
We’re here for the magic,
A masterpiece conjured from thin air,
And we plead: Just five minutes.
We won’t talk. Promise.
My mother, tutting, finds a discarded
Cardigan and jumper on a chair
And tells us to Put those on
Or you’ll catch your death of cold.
Charcoal is scratching a horizon,
A rough placement of river and trees.
And we’re inhaling
the mellow-sweet pipe puffs.
A methodical scraping and smearing
of titanium white and cobalt, a dash
of yellow ochre and more blue. Palette knife
scraping and smearing the perfect hue.
A plate of toast is put before us
And we’re told to Eat, then bed
As my father butters the canvas with paint
that metamorphoses into sky, clouds, reflected water.
We nibble slowly.
In the kitchen, a Christmas cake is being made,
And we stay silent, hoping no sound will be a reminder
we’re here; as mucky fields and hedgerows,
trees like stretching spider veins appear.
Not nearly finished; there are no fence posts
or gates or brown and white cattle drinking
by the water’s edge yet.
But our time is up.
Warm cinnamon and allspice accompany us
as we slide between cold sheets, grumbling.
While downstairs, my mother prepares for tomorrow
and my father, at the table, completes the painting into life.
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That image is one of my dad's paintings 
