Love is a many faced fellow.

Obsessional love is obsession.

With love thrown in.

The object of desire could be a cigarette.

Its coiling smoke painting blue wreaths in the air.

Gentle love is gentle.

The object of desire could be a pet.

Its soft fur a comforting, idle distraction.

 

Early morning sun.

The matriarch propped up and bathed in light.

Her mouth and forehead lined with concentration as she pores over a text.

She is solving a grammar question.

We laugh at the literal interpretation.

Only half able to explain how we know the answer.

The smell of coffee.

Mismatched cups and a breeze through the high, large windows.

Time is slower now.

The arrival.

The smell of roasting meat.

Everything beautifully laid out.

The chef apparently calm, perspires profusely over his groaning table.

An ice cold glass of vodka mellows time to a heady thrum.

People begin to arrive.

The parents.

Then the boys.

The Gorilla Keeper.

The afternoon speeds up.

A tumble of food, chat and wine.

 

 

Lush green.

Boughs and bushes pushed through the open window.

A green blockade.

Throughout the day the colour changed.

The high heat of 12 with its strong sun allowed no shade.

And the green was whitened.

A short rain burst bucketed down.

And the green was heightened.

As the afternoon moved on it became denser and denser.

In the early evening the light toned it down and the green was darkened.

All day I watched that green.

It was so singular, an uninterrupted stream of green. 

The iron smell of ink.

A silky black.

The fine tip of the brush lifts a full drop.

Holding it 'til it slips to thick paper.

A tumble through air, the drop turns and turns, giving the page a bold blot.

A dab of water and with the wash the black runs to grey.

The artist teases out her features.

Marking out key points on the paper.

He slowly builds a nose, eyes and a mouth.

It isn't his best picture.

But to watch him work is a silent pleasure.

A war wound.

The blackened toe.

Blotted with blood.

White poked through, so I knew it'd renew.

An injury incurred in the line of duty.

I had battled on.

Using the fat, painful toe.

Not telling a soul about the afflicted sole.

A motley crew.

Young, gold hooped earrings and gum.

Older, hennaed hair, gappy teeth and fun.

Abused, shy, smiley, with a whiff of glum.

Foreign, intense eyes and wiry limbs, slim French speaking Jim and his German lass.

Then you and I.

 

A snakeskin mist had settled in the plastic bottle.

Its rim was crusted with many different days of condensation.

It tasted salty.

Around its blue lid, half screwed on, half screwed off, was an elastic band.

It was the water carrier.

It needed replacing.

But day in, day out there it sat  on a chicken shit brown plywood desk.

Cheap and chipped but constant.