It’s August.
I’m painting her room
the lightest sky I can find –

so clear, even the clouds would forsake

their names just to glide across it’s face.

Gray drop-cloths are its land brushes –

the trees that sway gently,

up and down, to cover and change

those unsightly memories

and runs I can’t escape.

My daughter’s furniture is gone,

sold or taken away.

Eighteen years of phone calls,

clothes and hair barrettes

were gathered, parcelled and moved.

Now, the room goes to its primitive state.

Lines are disconnected and gone.

Posters moved on

leaving their tiny

teeth marks in the wall …

And I’m tempted to skip the brush,

like the child she was, over their places.

Dave Barber

Collection: Painting with Fingers