It Smells Of Paint Poem by Robin Pratt

The moon is faint
It smells of paint
Across 238857 miles
the whiff of turps and brilliant white gloss
stir nasal memories from childhood.

Like the sheet hugging child's fear of the monsters in the night.
That dark dark time with its impenetrable blackness
that you could almost touch.
Now, over the years abated, dissolved
with the knowledge of time's passing.

All those thoughts and fears and joys
The bumps and scrapes to body and mind
Piled high
like time spiked corpses
spent and dry and brittle

The stars clash with the lights on the wings of planes
spearing the night sky as they journey forth
interrupting the messages crossing the Universe
in a language we don't yet understand
hoping one day that we will.

So for now we sit on our smote
and stroke the dogs on which we dote.
Feel the air dark and fresh
hearing the first owl open its account for the evening.
Rest and absorb the dark, the peace.

The reality is stark and clear but merely a perception
mine different from yours and theirs.
But the air is real; the owl in the night is real.
In the grand scheme merely relative
Our speck a fleeting moment; one day spent.