In Quiet Hues

Life is an abstract painting.

The grass an outreached base,

textured by thick brush strokes,

thinning near the ends of its blades.

It dwells in emerald.

The canvas holds still

only for a moment,

to capture a girl

whose white dress

has an elegant trail.

She’s lumbered over a tapestry upon the grass,

her form seemingly ever so.

Stronger brush strokes push

an earthy brown upwards,

towering toward the sky.

The trees are dotted with leaves,

until my brush runs dry and rigid,

scraping to reach each sculpted branch.

A dog is walked on the scene,

and I feel extra attention is required

to capture its tussled fur,

curled in loops of honey.

How does one paint the wind?

For it chatters past my ears,

a sudden, painful strike.

I’d swirl the brush end

in palettes of auburn

to capture the hues

of golden hour.

Debut poet Christina Johnson enjoys wrangling words and embracing her inner garden gremlin. A Perth-based poet, her love for gardening and writing often intertwines.