Colour - Correction

Last night, I went up to the attic with my lover

And was faced with a bright onslaught of colour,

Coming from a painting no different to any other.

But its message seemed foresworn,

Its canvas had been torn,

And the colour was as if it was born worn.

It was a gift from my mother,

A woman that would rarely bother,

Yet her fingers lingered when they brushed against the colour.

I remember her giving it to me with a single trembling hand,

And in her voice, there was a quiet, but firm demand.

She said “Take it. I hope one day you understand.”

I was very young then,

I think I had only just turned ten,

So, it was difficult to see what she meant.

She continued “When I made this, they told me it was pink,

There was no room left to think,

About the meaning behind the ink”

“In my dreams, people don’t believe what they see,

And so, they rarely miss the forest for the tree.

You can make my dream come true; you are the key.”

I blinked, and the painting slowly became clearer,

For the first time in a long time, I felt I was near her,

And her words were ringing through my ears with rigor.

I finally admitted It was time to colour-correct the hue,

I picked up a brush and my emotion spew.

And so, I painted the pink trees blue.