The Artist Olley Poem by Helen Crutchett

The little Sydney yellow house still stands
the old wooden tabletop's disarray is
splotched with thick oil paints
squeezed and twisted among the
muddled brushes of vibrant colours
half completed flower paintings propped up
drunkenly around the room garden
dried flower arrangements fill empty spaces
an easel with an unfinished painting
waits patiently for the artist to appear
in her favourite battered sunhat
the yellow house smiles again.