She was the daughter of a painter

Jess on a canvas

Down the lane

Beneath the sparrows

Haunting windows

And the pockmarked underbellies

Of so much neglected spouting

Life was a canvas

Of opportunities gone

As though at birth a perfect picture

Crisp and glowing

Add life, like turps

Tear drops of colour

Washed into the pavement

By relentless grey rain

She was the daughter of a painter

But she strayed into photography

Black, white, greyscale.

“It tells it like it is” She says.