The patron saint of paint

He spoke to me in a dream on the road to Santiago
The pilgrim father. Ochre boots. Lamp black hair. 
“Any path can be a Camino.
“Just start walking. You’ll know when you get there.”

Now forgive me if I refer to the map. It’s long since I saw the legend - turned the key.
Winsor and Newton artists’ oils.
Humbrol enamels. Sable brushes. Airfix toils. 
Sunday school. St James the Apostle. Follow me…

Back. Past the pond. Iced over. 
Goldfish. Koi. Shubunkin. Locked in
Scarlet lake and silver slowly sparkling
Right at the tar-trunked pole. Under gunmetal transformer. 
Beneath blood red risk-of-death label and verdigris cable. Arc-ing…

To the garden shed

Drab olive door stuck in its dark oak jamb. 
Dull zinc hasp. Chrome padlock bright. 
Entrance to the relic of the saint
Fly-stained glass. Webbed light.
Burnt umber urn. Penumbra of paint. 

Gloss. Emulsion. Undercoat with a crust.
Cans made of plastic and tins turned to rust.
A screw top. Hand sized. Kilner-like. 
Scratchy thread. Preservative of the dead
And transfigurative. 

The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. 

Inside now. Muted. Hushed. Pewter. 
But every colour there ever was shouting:
“Son, you’ll know when you get there.”