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?
Frogs spring, dead leaves
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.
Sun below horizon drips
from spun sugar clouds,
and dabbed with paprika pepper.
Twilight squeezes the last drops of day
into the blue glass sky
and egg yolks the treetops
like asparagus heads
and those late oranges.
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.
After rain the green grows
dripping from leaf and bough.
Sea swell of rippling blades,
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.
Pinking the sky, the sun sets,
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.
Night slips damp into morning,
shadows swell into clouds
with the taste of rain.
Heron stalks the meadow,
cloud-coloured prehistoric reptile bird,
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.