The furrows in the farmers field
were winding cuts in open sea.
The doctors face of sympathy
looked on at me and sighed.
The dust was dry,
the paint was too.
The blood was brown upon the blue.
A yellow pollen floated by
the day that Vincent van Gogh died.

The voices whispered, whispered on.
The room was left uncleaned and still.
The lonely chair just stared outside
at honey bees in faded flight
as one by one they headed for the comfort of the hive.
The day was light,
the rooves were red.
The pictures lived.
The artist dead.
They shook their heads
but no-one cried
the day that Vincent van Gogh died.