Dark trees segmenting the darkness,
Chaos of rain upon leaves,
Shadows glide through the branches.
There is a rumour that dawn is coming,
is it really getting brighter?
I watch the master begin to sketch the world.
He bathes it in birdsong and mist,

revealing a premonition of colour.
Soon there will be infinite shades of green,
But not yet. First he develops depth,
Separating trees from each other,
Roughing in bark and smaller branches.
The rain slows him down, softens edges,
Yet quickly now, green has begun,
He fills in the grasses and splashes leaves everywhere.
Dark greens are mingling imperceptibly with the light.
Soon there will be shades of yellow
Brown has already appeared, so silently I never noticed,
And mottled the shadows like mothwings.
The Masters hands move like the river.
He stands back now
and adds flecks of many colours.
Who can say except in retrospect

when day begins and night has ended?