She sat on the river bank with
easel, paints and brushes
waiting to capture blushing clouds,
the heather great mountain
brooding over ripe green fields,
and the blues of the river
swirling our secrets to the sea.

She picks up a brush, dips
it into the puddles of colour, water
transferring, creating an image
of the paths we trod as girls
sleeping for our feet to inscribe secrets.

When I came she had framed it
in silver, protected it with glass,
and as we parted gave it to me.
Seated I look up, it hangs at eye level
and I see the home we shared
its life transferred to my foreign wall.

© Carolyn O’Connell

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