Galaxy and ringed planet on a shoulder

The paint came in a tin meant for boat hulls, which is why the blue has an oily shine when the light catches it. Mrs Pryce thinks I've lost my wits, painting the sky on the back wall of the chandlery, but she has never once looked up past the gulls, so I didn't argue.

The ringed planet took two evenings. I copied it from the almanac you left on the dresser, then drew the rings with a brass rule so they sit level, the way they do through the telescope on the pier. The two small worlds are no bigger than the pebbles we used to skim off Carn Point. The cloud was the easy part. I wet a sponge, dabbed the purple and green into each other while the tide went out under the window, and let the pink bleed down towards the skirting where the damp always gets in.

Young Billy from the fish quay stood on a crate yesterday and asked which of those planets was your ship. I told him none of them, because ships don't have rings, but he said the ring looked like a bangle somebody had dropped on the moon, and I could not argue with him.

I've left a gap in the yellow cloud, just above the biggest planet, about the width of a hand. It isn't for anything in particular. Keep looking up the way you're headed and come home through it. Love, Nell