Red watercolour poppies on the ribs

The poppies came up the week after you left, all at once, as if they had been waiting for you to go before they dared. Dad says the field behind Long Acre looks like someone has spilled a paint pot across the stubble, and he is not wrong. Those thin green stems keep leaning over the ditch as though they want a closer look at the lane.

I have been trying to do them the way you showed me, with the brush loaded and the paper still wet, letting the red bleed into the water so the edges go soft and nobody can say where one petal stops. Mine come out muddy every time. The pink runs too far and drowns the dark at the centres, and I end up with something that looks like a bruise. You made it look like breathing.

Mum found the old tin of watercolours under the stairs and says we can have the spoiled pages from the feed merchant's ledger, provided we don't write on the good side. I have kept a sheet for you. It is pinned above the kitchen table with the cups turned upside down to dry. The frost has been thick on the yard for three mornings now, and the kettle smokes in the cold, but the paint is still bright.

Come back when the blooms are out properly. Bring your bad brushes. I will show you how to bleed the green into the base of a stem so it looks like it has been drinking.

Love, Nell