This morning I woke to an oil painting
foretelling spring, dreaming of bulbs
straining through dark moist earth
to reach light pouring
out of cyan sky.

Before I was ready the sun had been smeared
behind a slick of cloud,
rendering the garden dull
under waves of grey.

Later, snow fall cleanses the masterpiece
painting the impression
of an uninterrupted white expanse stretching across the soil, path and grass
that peeks through
as I leave dancing footprints
on a space as blank and shadowless
as a child's colouring book,
broken only by half-hearted scribble:
green grass, brown trunk, red brick, fingerprint-smudged sky.

Will tomorrow bring another grey sky
belching snow that Lowry's men must wade through
or an abstract collection of white eye-liner;
muddy Slush Puppie pools of snow topped with grit,
overshadowed by a concave-bellied sky restored
to aquamarine?