The world is so dark

so grey, so gloomy.

Is it possible to write

of beauty, love,

magic, alchemy,

enchantment,

rich, orange,

golden, glowing,

true?

In response,

you paint me skies of midwinter:

soft peachy apricots

a palette of moonlight blues

red gold burning on the galloway skyline

pinks, purples, mauves exploding in a

fever by my door.

You scratch words with barebone branches

‘gainst the canvas of midwinter

asking softly, irresistible:

is it possible not to?