In My Sketch

In my sketch I fell her body in a meadow where a thousand daisies swayed with the gentle sweep of the wind. A white cotton-laced dress was gathered like a deflated parachute around the frame of her. In the background an old red barn full of yellowed sweet hay spilling out one of the larger windows was coloured into view. Beyond this a sky of azure blue was added with a few tiny white clouds floating on purpose out the frame of the page. In the next few minutes that followed I had intended to include an unreachable rainbow whose centre would jut off just beyond the edge of my chosen medium – a water colour paper sized like that of a standard photograph – its edges frayed and browning. In the foreground tall wisps off green grass were planted. A butterfly with the most brilliant colours was soon to be flitting about. For now it sat motionless atop the bud of a rose as commanded by the pencil crayon gripped by the fingers of my right hand. Meticulously a variety of colours worked on each and every detail of the butterfly's beautiful outstretched wings. The air was Spring-like, though just by looking at the picture it was hard to tell. If one's eye were to look really close, a crimson red ladybug would be spotted resting on the tallest blade of grass ever so gently blowing first this way and then that in the right-hand corner of this scene. Later in the day another figure was going to enter the scene but I couldn't quite figure out its exact placement within the frame at this particular juncture in time. In my mind  Edvard Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 would soon fill the air – but how to express it within this narrow context. Stretching along the horizon was going to be a massive mountain range, its highest peak to remain unattainable – a tease to the most ardent of climbers. Beyond this nameless peak a flock of birds would swirl amid the warmth of the sun's rays to be rendered by means of a golden yellow pencil crayon, which I hoped would add a touch of vitality to the overall exposure of the scene. Back to the body whose form lay lifeless atop a small clearing to the left of the meadow's centre. The girl's hair was rooted with a mess of golds and browns and her face lay in the opposite direction from her tangle of curls. Presently I began to colour some life into her pale skin and soon enough she started to squirm. Then she began to speak, but only in incomprehensible whispers. I was intrigued so I put my pencil crayon down and listened intently to her choppy sentences. I believe she was trying to tell me her name, but I couldn't quite yet make out what it was she was saying…and then just as I am about to pencil in a name for her, the butterfly that had been sitting atop the rose flutters over and rests ever so gently on the nape of the girl's neck resulting in a slight tickle which causes her body to move first a little to the right and then to the left. Startled by this I step back, away from the scene…