Yesterday John came home wet and covered in mud.
Had he been fishing, no he’d fallen in the mill pond.
And then last week he’d come home, too late for dinner, he’d fallen asleep looking at the clouds.
This idea of painting, not a white wash on the scullery walls nor blacking the range but painting trees on a canvas sack.
I think it’s that Turner, young whipper snapper,
giving him ideas, now it’s red spots.
Not on my wattle and daub!
Who is going to buy that sort of thing?
I just wish he’d concentrate on the farm.
© David Humphries 2026