On Canvas

On canvas, I am painted

in greyscale,

each shade morphing into the other

until I am left hanging on a wall,

the streaks of gold

and summer scarlet underneath

unheeded.

In burnt sienna I am a blank canvas,

airing out marks of chipped cerulean

and fuchsia faded into sun-washed antique,

the dust pattern of passing fingertips

eager to drain

these colours away.

I lay with absence,

a clean slate,

no paints to mar the palette with their stains,

no canvas to give way to patterned brushstrokes.

I paint myself

a thumbprint butterfly in flight,

idle in a prism of sunset and sunrise,

in moss green

and flecks of dirt,

in soft violet

and the sky after the rain breaks it –

on canvas, I am painted brilliant.