The Painter

The painter plonks his brush into the rainbow
and paints the sky a cerulean blue.
He dots spots of red, orange, yellow and green
on the leaves of the trees,
then swoops over the seas with
a blue-green ease.
He paints each feather of parrots and flamingoes,
contemplating each important stroke.
The tigers and zebras and bees get stripes;
leopards and cheetahs and deers, spots;
giraffes and butterflies, shapes;
and great white sharks, grey.
He camouflages chameleons and polar bears,
octopuses and stick insects.
He looks at his beautiful creation,
and I think he’s forgotten,
but, of course, he’s not.
He mixes colours from his rainbow pot,
then
carefully,
perfectly,
meticulously,
he

paints

me.