If my life were a painting,
It would be of the night.
Of rain on pavements,
Reflecting street lights.
And sat on a bench,
shadowed and dark,
Would be a boy in a coat,
Too big and covered in marks.
But life isn't painting,
But a series of stills,
And if you wind the reel forward,
The boy grows, the coat he fills.
And now, another figure joins him,
Pulls him off the bench, to his feet,
And now, they start dancing,
In each other's arms, down the street.
Drenched in rain,
He takes off his coat,
Wraps it around her,
And pulls out a ring and a note.
With a tear of joy, she nods,
With a nervous laugh, he stands,
The sun starts to rise,
As they hold each other's hands.
Then, just a frame or two on,
A small figure runs up to the pair,
And the boy - now a man,
Lifts the child in the air.
Smiling, he holds his wife and child close,
And wipes the rain from their faces,
As the sun is overhead,
And light shines onto their embraces.
And so a new painting forms,
Brighter, now the sun's above,
And the coat around her shoulders,
Reminds her of his love.
