Speckled polka pointillism in the sky, in lime and apple green, caress the jagged, jaded jade summer oak. And smiles down like the angel rays, which cast my soul to heaven. And insignificance. As I steal through my sunshine archways.
Rose light streams through the large cove of bay windows like skinny, taut ribbons, or glinting spider webs, onto the wall. Highlighting a creamy expanse of cornicing rising higher into the infinite.
The purple haze of heather had dwindled in the sunshine. Bluebells were breaking too, their florets a flutter. Smoggy incense rolls in off the horizon smoking over the crumbled mountaintops, their peaks unable to break the surf.
5 am in mid July and the sun is raising golden trails in sky and in the pools, following the golden signet's flaming vapour trails which, in polka- dotted summer spawn, calm the water's satin, rippled peaks. Subsiding and gliding into the stillness of emerald pond. The signets move to the glistening side of the river bank, shafts of light catching the lens forging ghostly golden sickles which lengthen amongst the dust hovering aglow above silver cove and English lagoon.
My freckle flecked love stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that, as I pull it back, all the bristles bend seamlessly, and when I let go they ping forwards, smattering a scattering of stars, onto snowy canvas.