The Autumn Painter - a little story accompanying about a young imagination. I hope I never lose it. ( for more writing please click the link in my bio ) 😀
The beauty of the garden beckoned many things through its gateway. Children, birds and butterflies were its favourite creatures. Autumn was the time we liked the best. Pretty leaves would crackle under our tiny shoes, inviting us to pick them up. We loved to imagine a huge gentle hand dipping leaves in coloured paint pots, then hanging them on the trees to dry. Peraps the painter was forgetful, moving on to colour other gardens, leaving his masterpieces to dry and blow away in the wind. But maybe he knew exactly what he was doing and just loved to see our smiles. The butterfly was a perfect canvas with its soft wings openly inviting his craft. We wondered how he could hold them so still and paint them in such fine detail. Being such a beautiful creature the butterfly must have known what delights he could impart to other visitors to the garden, and maybe outside the garden for that matter. The butterfly after all was a flying work of art. We would stay all day playing and running through the trees and coloured fields of daisies, until the veil of night would hide the masters work. On rainy days we didn't visit the garden because we knew the colours would be washed away. We stayed inside and painted on our own. Sometimes the sun would come out for a while so we would put on our rain boots and run as fast as we could through the garden gate. When we looked up we knew that a grey sky was irresistible to the painters brush. For rainbows were his favourite thing of all.