Mia and the colour purple

If I could paint you an aura
it would be in shades of purple,
subtle with a touch of violet
and a delicate hint of mauve;
all the colours you love,
sweet Mia, little dreamer,
child of my child.

When you were born,
I could see in your eyes
an old soul who had
been here before;
too wise, too sensitive for
such a harsh modern
world. A changeling
from a never-ever-land.

When you were four,
half the age you are now,
you painted sunflowers
after Van Gogh,
bold and full of character;
not like you at all,
or so your teacher thought.
But I knew different.

Now we sit in a cafe
eating our chocolate brownies
and reading my art book,
which will be yours
by the time we leave.
We talk of art and artists
and the colour purple.

We look at Matisse,
and his the Lady in the
Purple Robe with Anemones;
then all the Seurat women,
still as statues, lazing
on a warm Sunday Afternoon
beneath their purple parasols.

If I could paint you an aura,
perhaps it should be gold,
the colour of protection
to keep you safe.
But it wouldn't suit you at all
so why would I spoil
such a perfect work of art.

No, it could only be purple;
purple is royalty,
mysterious and spiritual.
Your colour; nothing else
would do for you,
sweet Mia, little dreamer;
child of my child.