Which?

The #OctPoWriMo prompt today is about the perception of colours.

 

Which colour can I hold in the palm of my hand

that will not slip between my fingers

like melted butter,

running water or flowing sand?

Lake blue or sunset yellow?

Green of autumn leaves?

Or the russet brown of a winter hare?

Which is the face you will remember,

when you turn and walk away,

dew-eyed, the colour of a fresh rose,

or crumpled and smeared,

waste paper in the rain?

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Ninth colour

 

Frogs spring, dead leaves

bounding streamward,

the slow mud-sluggish end of summer stream,

strewn with fallen branches

and prickled with prints of secret feet.

Bark runs with the taste of rainwater

where birds flit, like spent leaves drifting,

not earth in their wings, not yet,

though winter cold will claim its due

and brown feathers join the leaf fall—

bird voices pipe

not yet, not yet.

Seventh colour

 

Blue the breath of the north,

ice floes flowing on goose wings.

Taste the tang of salt in the starry air,

the prickle of starshine on a clear night

when air hangs crystal cold

with blackbird egg promises that spring will come,

despite the veils of dove feather mist

and fur coat of hoarfrost.

We felt the warm fade together, you and I,

yet when I watched at twilight

the turquoise-turning sky,

to catch the last of summer’s hush,

it was always Mars that drew your eye,

with its wild red glitter.

Sixth colour

 

After rain the green grows

mint sharp,

dripping from leaf and bough.

Sea swell of rippling blades,

slender-leafed plants

pushes through summer debris,

tender salad slathered in butter gold.

Clouded with lace flower,

the meadow lies, a weed-swaying lake

where crickets and pike-snakes

shake the stalks

with their sea green breath.

Fifth colour

 

Pinking the sky, the sun sets,

fuchsia flowering

among the raised beds of clouds,

strip-lighting this end of evening.

Honey and last melons on the dinner plates,

wind breathes gentle,

while crickets tune their saw legs.

Strawberry light falls,

raspberries on the canes still,

and the roses hanging their heads

in scented silence.

Fourth colour

Night slips damp into morning,

shadows swell into clouds

with the taste of rain.

Heron stalks the meadow,

cloud-coloured prehistoric reptile bird,

frog-hunting.

The mists grow.

This light rumbles low and wet

like dark waves in a cliff cave,

fish run up the walls with lizard tails,

and my window echoes silver

with the memory of brilliance.