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Anima

[Written with Van Gogh's Wheatfield, With Cypresses as a prompt]


A pareidolic skeleton leans through the cloud,
fixated on a small dot below
and exhales a swirling breath
down at the man.
He awakens at the whistling wind around him
and sees a symphony in colour.

The bones above revel in the transmutation,
sound into light,
nature to consciousness
and man to earth.

For now his brush catches the climbing cypresses,
sprinkles a flute of poppies in the foreground
and conjures bursting yellow strings of wheat.
The environmental applause rings out and echoes,
as the clouds look down on him,
turning away from the mountains,
inwards and darkening,
and the clouds and the flora still for his leaving. 
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