The colour of this summer is purple,
of storm skies, bruised clouds
and the dark beneath forest boughs.
Only the brave sing
with their thin threads of voices,
gossamer drifting across an infinite emptiness.
Petals fall, torn untimely,
a sea of regret for the blue promise
of spring never fulfilled.
Less is not more;
there will never be enough flowers
in this meadow or birds in the hedge,
never enough light in the sky
to show the truth
to those whose gaze is a dark tunnel.
Music drifts brave and sweet,
a thin thread, tenuous, barely there at all,
but what does life offer more beautiful?