By STEVE DENEHAN
I was a boy when we met
and he
had just a year or two
left in him
no common ground
at first
until he pointed
at the paintings
on the walls
my eyes widened
his smile did too
I painted but he
was a painter
he showed me his brushes
his palette knives
his easel
showed me how
he mixed his colours
even gold
he wrote them out
the colours, the quantities
on an uncrumpled piece of paper
so that I might make
my own gold
I tried and tried again
giving up eventually
accepting that the magic
was not in me
a few weeks later
I saw him again
he handed me a small glass jar
gold, liquid gold
on the drive home
I cupped it in my hands
entranced by the light
it generated
from within itself
I never could bring myself
to use it
precious as it was
it is still around somewhere
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