Painting Donegal
The indicator ticks amber
as I turn towards the cottage
along the track that twists and climbs.
And the smell of linseed lingers, it blends
with burnt umber turf stacked on canvas ground.
Brown turf wet and heavy, spade cuts
in the bog that borrow slabs of colour from the sky.
Brambles claw at a wheel arch; screeching.
A marble boulder melts in headlights
that glide off into bogland soft as butter.
The sound of the white edged Atlantic
as it surged at the cliff. And brush strokes
that attempt to catch a wedge of ochre light
against the threatening western sky.
The last bump, familiar now after five days.
I turn right, through black iron gates
the headlights fade,
I step onto the loose crunch of gravel.
The central locking clunks: amber,
amber. Now, only the soft rain
on my face as I reach the cottage door.
And inside, the slender dawn
climbs yesterday’s painted sky.
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