Of your toes and knees
Under crumpled black sheets.
Scattered with paisleys.
The morning light, glints dust
Around your face
Your smell; oil paint
And a spice I cannot place.
I you had never touched a paint brush
from that day to this,
you'd still smell like paint.
As if you'd baptised the smell of
Royal Blue #42 into your skin.
Our thing, you take the coloured glass oval
that hang from string around your neck,
and press it to your forehead.
"This is my magic third eye.
I can see the world through this eye".
I believed you.
Next the ceremonial placing of the
Tea Cosy,
upon your head.
Now bishop of all from the headboard, to your toes.
You're solemn.
"How old are you Grandad?"
"Ohh" the answer caught in your chest
I wait with baited breath...
"Older than God".
I didn't believe you.
