The Summer Teacher.

That summer,

when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,

she decided to send me
to an art class.

Early in the morning

I was woken up.

My sketch book, 

pencils, paints

and brushes packed. 

My teacher had 

a grey beard, 

thick glasses,

a penchant for

clean, crisp shirts

and a smile

which made

his eyes crinkle.

He looked us over.

A large group

of barely awake kids

forced out of beds 

early on a
summer holidays
morning. 

He had two rules,

he said.

We hated rules.

You all need to 

take a bath before 

you come to class.

We hated baths. 

And the second rule?

When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.

A blue sun.

Red grass.

Yellow crows.

Pink elephants.

And purple people

were perfectly acceptable.

We stared at him

trying to fathom

a world where 

no one was telling us 

to colour within the lines. 

And just like that

we started taking baths

at 6 AM every day.

Without a single complaint.