A young man lies on the grass. The sun is warm, the earth is warm and the air is alive with the drowsy hum of bees.

The green spikey shapes of the grass, the brown and orange smudge of the earth, the red and black oval of a ladybird scaling the heights of the grass, yellow and purple flowers nodding at the perimeter of his vision and the blue and white of the summer sky all impinge on his consciousness. He must share this heavenly day.

Hurrying back to his studio he picks up a brush and paints a smudge or to of orange and brown, some green spikey shapes, an oval or two of red and black, some splodges of roughly-flower-shaped purple and yellow with an interwoven theme of blue and white and sprays it with the golden colour of summer sunshine.

He frames it in a bamboo frame tied at the corners with dried reeds because it belongs with wild stuff, and labels it "A Summer Afternoon".

The gallery hang it on an ugly buff-coloured wall, the wrong way up - and still the young man sees the feeling of a glorious day. It is a good picture, a fulfilling picture. It was a blissful afternoon. He is well pleased.

Along comes Mr & Mrs Everyday. They glance briefly at the picture and without giving anything of themselves to it scoff, "Cor look at what they've got the cheek to call art these days. Our four year old could do better." They've come to see pictures not to think. The artist, hearing their remarks feels hurt and angry. People have no right to be so arrogantly scathing and apathetic, he tells himself as he stomps home in disgust.

His girl friend, also an artist and poet, lends a sympathetic ear to his tale of woe and seethes with an anger to match his. She goes to bed still considering the injustice of it all. Waking with a heart-full of words about the young man's frustration, she toils for several hours to find exactly the right rhythm, exactly the right synonyms and allegories, the finest metaphors. She selects each word with meticulous care so as to evoke the utmost response from her readers and off she goes to read the poem to her writing group.

The bravest ones, knowing when they've spotted the King's underclothes, shout, "It doesn't rhyme, that's not poetry."

The poet travels home despondent, and tells her troubles to the artist. They weep together for the blindness of the common man.