Mum told me the sky painters came in the night.
She said while we slept they were loading their brushes,
With pigments as pink as a thousand girls’ blushes,
And sweeping across the horizon they made,
The world a huge canvas in this cheery shade.
I looked at the colours high over the trees,
I wondered, just what kind of painters are these?
They must have long arms for strokes so big and wide,
Or have some fantastic winged creatures to ride?
With a smile she said, seeing these artists is rare,
But often there are clues that they've been up there.
A smudged circle round the medallion sun,
A criss-cross of lines that no plane could have done.
Or when there’s a cloud, she said, shaped like a heart-
All might be original works of sky art.
That’s nice mum, I said, It’s a pretty thought but…
Don’t tell anyone else or they’ll think you’re a nut.