The Earth is a water painting,
Created by some invisible Picasso,
Still damp from the godly brushstrokes,
The skies morph before your eyes,
Ever changing,
As if moved by the brushes’ impetus,

Blended swathes of viridian making up the fields,
A view into the many masks of the land,
The arid lands and barrens shine in saffron ardour,
Each river a stroke of woad,
You can see the current in its very pigment,
A sublime portraiture,

It’s a look at our mother in artistic disclosure,
Showing her countless faces,
Both serene and destructive,
The paintings surface feels both molten and siberian,
Professing the worlds extremes in colour,
After all isn’t a landscape just a portrait of the world?

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