"Standing Where the Easel Was"

I take the place he chose—
this narrow hinge of street
where yellow gathers itself
and pushes out into the hour.

The tables lean toward the road
as if waiting for a sign
that never quite arrives.
Their surfaces hold a soft heat,
a lingering after talk has thinned.

A waiter moves through the glow
with the calm of someone
who knows the night will keep its shape
no matter who comes or goes.

The stones beneath my feet
carry a worn shine,
a record of countless crossings
that never needed to be written down.

Above, the sky works through its blues—
layered, unsettled, a depth
that refuses to flatten even when lamps
insist on their own field of gold.

I stand here, letting the hour
press lightly against me.
Interpretation not demanded.
Lessons unsolicited.

The scene simmers its own truth:
a corner of the world
left open long enough
for colour to do what it must.

I lift my hand,
not to correct the night
but to follow it—
line by line,
glow by glow,
until the canvas learns
what the street already knows.

.