I want to paint,

The feeling of fresh grass tickling my feet,

a freshly made loaf of bread as soft as a cloud,

a super nova that’s making stars sparkle in the air-tight death of space,

saturns delicate rings dancing in space,

the Eiffel Tower as tall as a rocket,

I want to paint,

The menacing mayan’s  temples and their delicate  stone work,

a Tiaga  with it’s pungent pine needles,

a emerald green tree, like a giant towering over Warrington,

the memory of a hot summer’s day at a bear beach-just me,

a bright bed of flowers singing in the wind,

I want to paint a moulded  medival  throne empty never to be sat on.

I want to paint Christmas and lightning lights.

I want to paint space and the univers its self.

The end