The Painter
I’m on a ferry from Manly
and as the sun’s last rays sink
the city shines.
The fine lines of the Bridge,
the Tower and the towers dissolve,
blue, orange, white stars flare and
gems are strewn luxurious across the bay.
My faith says
God paints glories
in the glories worked by hands.
He made us, we made
the night bejewelled.
Afternoon, I approach the city
crossing from Pyrmont over the old bridge,
a young sunset
sets all glass ablaze
as I walk below the peach golden blue sky.
Though buildings anticipate vermillion,
the water delights in each delicate
shade of sun’s evensong —
gentle colours dance, play
in a millionfold-subtle masterpiece.
My heart says
God’s own hand paints glories
in humble pastels.
- Iain Hart
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