You stood stock still in the golden hour
Your brush dangled from your hand as you scrutinised the scene
It was the first time I’d watched you work
And the joy and the freedom were almost more than I could handle.
If I moved – to speak or to scratch,
You would gesture impatiently for me to resume my stance,
The crickets clicked their deafening wings
While the lowering sun engulfed us both in its splendour.
The heat of the day would not subside, but would linger
Long into the hot summer night, the mosquitoes usurping the crickets
Your sensual, gentle strokes continuing,
As your final touches transformed the wasteland around us into paradise