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.