Sunflowers

I often spend my days thinking of that bearded stranger who wandered to streets of France. I'd often pass him on my journeys, he was a gentle soul. He would always walk with his easel on his back as though he needed it to breathe. One day I hesitantly and silently followed him to a quiet lake where the water reflected colours of emerald and sapphire. He pulled a simple rustic vase from his woven bag before reaching to fill the vase with the gentle running water for the lake. He placed the vase upon a withered wooden bench and wandered away for a brief moment through the quaint gathering of tree nearby. He appeared again several minutes later with the most beautiful handful of sunflowers, as yellow as the sun could ever be. He placed he's canvas before the sunflowers and he began to paint. He's method of painting was like no other I had seen before; with each stroke of the brush you could feel the movement, the passion which he was placing in the painting. Every joy, every smile, every mistake and frustration was transferred into the piece. He painted with marvellous yellows and vibrant oranges to almost match to blinding colour of his hair. When he had finished, he simply scowled at it and slipped it away into his bag as though it was nothing. He never knew I had followed him that day, he never knew I was watching and he shall never know but I shall forget.