P[rose]aic

An artist in the morn finds a lady who asks to be painted with a plucked rose. She stands there, staring back, with a peahen on her arm, but by the evening she is a lady in a garden of roses looking out to a moonlit sea, red cape, green dress.
With a flourish she flings a look at the artist and swings off with a dead peacock flung over one shoulder.
The artist paints the blues, crazy peacock blues and the moon and, reclining upon a cushion of cloud, smiles like a cheshire-cat.
The peahen stands atop a discarded hat banded with those roses and Venus shows herself to be naked and full under the draped weight of the sky.