If your heart was sore, heart weary,
if your eyes were filling with the tears of the day,
with the shadows of grief still flitting around you:
I would paint you a sky.
I would dip my brush in a palette of reds:
just a hint, just a tint, just a streak on the horizon,
a brightening, a sun stroke,
a sliver of burnished gold.
I would place the buzzard waiting,
the perfect silhouette of strong, courageous heart,
outlined, unmissable, against this red painted sky.
I would set the skies rolling in clouds tinged with purple,
moving soft across this most beautiful garden of Galloway,
I would let the oystercatcher fly on the last stretch home
the final turn of the road,
the last breath of your heart,
so you’d know it was sent
straight from me.
If your heart was sore, love:
I’d paint you the sky.