Colour, he saw colour, in a park, a simple park,
on a Sunday, in the summer.
Colour, he painted colour, in that park, clear,
considered, untainted, untampered colour,
specs of colour, rays of light, in a park,
on a Sunday, in the summer, in a season of details,
in a salon of specifics, under demands to consolidate,
co-operate.
Colour, he saw colour, a canvas of light and colour,
a carnival of colour.
Colour, he saw colour, in a park, on people,
simple people, working people, fishing people,
fidgeting people, not polished people,
not posh people.
They buried him, in a park, another park, a quieter park,
but still with light and colour.
They buried him and then they buried his son and then another.
Life and death. Father and sons. Children and art. Children or art.
But only art survived.

Colour, he saw colour, on a Sunday, in a park, on an island,
in Paris, to the left of its centre and there he made a difference.

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Georges Seurat painted Un dimanche après-midi a l’Île de la Grande Jatte in Paris and was later buried in Cimetière du Père Lachaise at the age of 32.