Dad and I are at the local pub for the
Seniors Special Roast of the Day.
I wear a dress and Estee Lauder;
he wears turpentine and there’s a
button left over at the top of his shirt,
a smudge of blue across his brow
that might be a piece of fallen sky.
Today I watched him paint at home.
With three whiskies to ‘steady’ him,
he layered rocks you could climb,
texture weathered by palette knife;
a Namatjira gum stark against the
rich ochre tones of a rugged gorge.
My father paints too with his feet,
treading the fallen dobs of colour
into a Pro Hart canvas on the floor.
Now he paints from photographs,
travels the landscape of his mind,
but I have seen him measure
the land against his thumb;
shrink the vast horizon
to fit his lounge room walls.
From: https://wapoets.com/creatrix-53-poetry/#RossJ
Date: 2021
By: Mardi May (19??- )
From Troubles of The World 