When I was Small
the smallest of all
the ones I called Bigger and Elder would frown
at the mud on my dress as we drove into town
but when meadows next beckoned I followed the call
when I was Small.

When I was Klee Wyck
my blood ran so quick.
With my brushes at Massett I knew it was good
where the old ways survived, where the totems still stood,
where light filtered through, where mosses lay thick
when I was Klee Wyck.

For the paint never dries
when you open your eyes
to the dark.

When I put on a show
sharing all that I know
the society ladies reacted with sneers.
“That’s the crudest artistic pretension in years.”
So I kept the shadows, where charwomen go
when I put on a show.

I faltered and fell
like a mouse in a well
where the doctors were stern and my birds were all flown
there was no face I knew and no colour my own
like a penitent waiting for heaven or hell
I faltered and fell.

But the paint never dries
when you open your eyes
to the dark.

He offered a ring
if I’d do the right thing
I was fond of him, true, but I knew in my heart
there was no room in marriage for freedom or art.
I couldn’t accept though the decades might sing
when he offered a ring.

In my caravan free
just my monkey and me
I can dance to the wind, I can paint until dawn
till the moon has her fill, till the city is gone
alone in the chapel of forest and sea
in my caravan free.

For the paint never dries
when you open your eyes
to the dark.

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• geohistory

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