The Sky Gets Told

After I pulled my blind open this morning I sank back, still half-asleep, into bed. And then my tics rounded on the sky:

“Sky, that’s a poor effort.”
“Sky, you are blanker than the surface of an overstretched rubber band.”
“Sky, the Expressionists would be disappointed in you.”
“Sky, you look better with my eyes closed.”
“Sky, I’m not even sure you exist right now.”

The sky remained unmoved, a solid grey expanse of nothing. While I got ready for work my tics continued to have a go at it. But instead of scolding, they took a different approach and started tagging it with scrawled ideas, like graffiti on a blank wall.

“I’m painting a rainbow on your forehead, Sky.”
“I’m writing a love-letter to the lamp-post in your gaps, Sky.”
“I’m dancing with a carrier-bag across your blank back, Sky.”
“I’m parking some ideas in your space, Sky.”

Festive Outburst
“Rudolf the red-nosed beetroot.”

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