Your Portrait

In a traffic jam, where couples got deckchairs
from their car boots
and positioned them on the motorway
as though the tarmac was the sand,
the hard shoulder the tide,
me and you quickly ran out of conversation.

I took out a spiral bound notebook from the back
and decided to do your portrait
using the poster paint we had bought
for your nephew's birthday.
You posed like the guilty member
of an identification parade
and focused your attention
on Steve Wright in the Afternoon.

I captured your lips with such clarity
that I thought they were about to say 'hello.'
The ears were lifelike
from the rosy lobes, to the freckle
like a piercing.

The blue for the eyes took so long to mix
because I wanted to get the perfect shade
of cerulean
I only painted the left,
it took so long to angle the bristles of my brush
to recreate that glint
that I decided I couldn't cope with painting the right

So I started to paint in the scarf you always wore
it took an hour to crosshatch
the tartan
and when I started to paint in
the pattern of your favourite jumper
that you bought when we were in Salzburg
the traffic started to flow.

When I got home, I carried on painting.
The legs were easy, you always wore black trousers
so within seconds I was putting on your shoes
remembering the buckles.

I decided to sketch in a background
behind the canvas I filled in a cricket field,
beyond the boundary, Shetland ponies
galloping like fast bowlers.

It was when I was drawing the sun
setting behind the pavilion
that you came into the bedroom
and told me you were leaving.

After the argument, the screaming
and the packing, I looked back at the painting,
complete, but for one eye missing.
It was like you were winking
and had known all along.