A cool November Thursday. Seven p.m. The sky, blue, purple, smoky grey and red And the moon, thin, thinnest crescent, stops, to look
Colours That, for sure, is George, my friend, my painter brother June ’08, packed his bags (did he bother to pack?) Went To God’s home. Where now, He plays Brush in hand, paint on his canvas – sometimes gently, like a lover’s touch to another Sometimes, red energy, brush and paint and sky and brush and paint and sky, impatient, And it shows on the sky Now grey and purple and red and pink, all colours, mixed And the moon, thin, thinnest crescent, dims his light, puzzled.
O Lord, were you to buy paint, would I pity You For the gallons, that you would must buy To satiate my beloved’s love For painting And the moon, thin, thinnest cresent, smiles, knowing.
The sky, now ink blue, smoke grey, baby pinkish, And the moon, thin, thinnest crescent Watches As George plays With God’s colours, in God’s sky As seen from the skies of Juba This Seven p.m. of an ordinary November Thursday…