I look at white lounge room walls, scrape 

away paint to reveal frescos glazed 

in ruby, sapphire, emerald. I carve 

away like I’m on an archeological dig.

My mother worries it is too much, too busy.

‘But they’re your colours, your style,’ I say. 

I wonder who convinced her to paint 

over such a thing, so long ago that we have both 

forgotten it. My mother wonders 

where the furniture will go. My dream has turned 

archeological and my mother is concerned 

the chairs won’t match.