My friend the blinded painter
sketches portraits in crayon.
The ears, nose, eyes are memory perfect
but the face does not connect.
We walk the Sunday park, conversations
strung on a leash.
The sky pencils in a moustache,
treeline shadow on a cold field.
It is good to be out-of-doors.
I am his retina, pupil
and he speaks to me of coloured visions:
I am absorbed in blooming fruit trees,
pink peach trees, yellow-white pear trees
We pass figures in wintercoat and wellingtons
leaning into a polar wind.
© Brian Flaherty