I know these limbs, that bend of the neck, the little tilt of the head, the nose that just is. My brush knows them too from a memory that I can’t define. There’s memory in the curve my hand makes, every mark brings me a glowing warmth. While I remember my story a boy sits on top of Kim’s Zamzammah and rides to the castle top. He sits looking out to the sea waiting for the ships to appear. Some cheeky furry insurgents leap out of the bushes and make a dash for the castle gate. He rushes after. Their colleagues look on in great confusion. Where will this adventure end?
Freshly mixed hues 