There were painter’s clouds that day;
broiling, tumbling,
moving inner silence across an easel.

Beneath them
a concrete mind mixed and etched
one long brush-stroke:
the tarmac before us.

Excited engines carried us along
and carried by us
an air befriended...
with the convertible top thrown down
your hair streamed
olympic colour; a spectrum of extraordinary.
You threw back a sunrise laugh,
the wind and all else
belonged to exhilaration.

The horizon captured another sky,
a mist-green hail filled sea; a quiet litany.

A pallet knife scratched its lightening
and the danger of no potential
that kept us moving on.