Colour Arts

Swimming in cycles, I pattern an air;

dash, cross, the mimes of meeting,

they are a crime and I am a road-side

mottled hard, cracked paving,

the worse for wear, but a red light

lights my eye and guides my thought,

a spark in a second, a buzzing phone.

I throw out dust and paper, reels of film

sun-baked, reeling, cracked,

replace with seconds from the fountain,

hiding in the inner court, the rows

of sun, smooth over, swat eyes,

illumine the channel of white and I,

the heavy, chiselled word.

writer's blockNew New

◄ Warden

Brown Water ►

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