The trees in the South of France don't rustle they whisper to the trained ear they're talking of water and root systems chatting about seedlings and the joy of the sunlight on bark and we hear it him and I, as he paints and tries to convey it on canvas. I like his vibrant colours and bold strokes pulsating on the white how he mixes perspectives and plays with dark and light and the way he smiles as he paints, this unassuming man the copper in his hair and beard setting the late afternoon ablaze. I could hear church bells ringing in Arles as he started to clear all away "I must return soon to my asylum" came his wistful bumblebee voice and I replied softly "no Vincent, please just wait awhile and stay and we lay in the fields of tall grasses and wild flowers to watch a dying sky. As the night took it's vice like grip the stars came out so clear and crisp as we chatted and he was inspired no doubt and he placed a new canvas on his easel and spoke so little then transfixed by the heavenly beauty as so easily happens to certain men. So I let him paint and I watched him as the night grew chill he drank from the bottle but ate so little and talked to himself a lot I smiled as by lantern lights art emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis "A starry night" he pronounced beaming and I saw in his eyes the bliss. © .Garry Saunders