We drive winding narrow along a quilt of grass dotted woolly white, stitched together by rows of craggy walls and sturdy trees. He dips his brush in green and water and colors her England.
And just when He finishes with green, the brush loads rapeseed yellow in May. Those long sunny strokes wave hello to passersby, shout glory of blanketed earth.
When we stop, the trees stretch their limbs in windy gale, awaken to our presence. The air echoes bleating sheep. He recognizes the whimper of each one.
And I think I can hear it running whisper along the dale; His voice in the stillness, a drip falling from the paintbrush He holds to color the sky blue.
Wherever you may wander, over hill and dale, may you recall that He painted this day a masterpiece for you.
Happy Saturday Friends.