Feeling ever as a roof of clear light,
Painted with fragile strokes
Not a pale blue on bright gold
But with a touch of haze to temper.

Somewhere between brilliant and depressed
Lies the Van Gogh sky,
Broken by a solitary gull
Fishing where fishermen have been.

Removed from its place, a stained glass window
Turned over, the hull of a mighty ship
Held where painted, its expanse forever
At least to the edge of the frame.

A thousand brushes on plain white,
Left to right, small drops, imperfections
Leading the eyes to feel,
Feeling an honest reality.