against a white sky
rainbows all colours of blue
changes tomorrow
colour
monochrome
monochrome photographs
I remember in colour
photographs and dreams
The Five-Colour Rainbow
Grandad called her his five-colour rainbow. She did not think about it while he was still alive; it was his name for her.
But then when the sad days were over it took over her life – a degree, a doctorate, a professorship and, of course, that book. ‘The Five-Colour Rainbow’ was more pre-ordered than read, but those who tried really appreciated the chapter headings and the way it finished with a question.
the colour of the sand
the colour of the sand beneath the water
as the sunbeam splits and rainbow lights
the colour of the free-seen sky
and that imagined behind the single cloud
the colour of wishes and desire
Clouds beyond clouds
clouds beyond clouds
charcoal layers far horizon
pewter smeared across, an artist’s chalk
birdsong breaking silence
Three pieces about the shortest and longest days (2 by me, 1 by Karina Brink)
The shortest day beckons sunlight.
The darkest night is before the dawn.
The path ahead may be through the shadows
but even this will pass.
***
The longest day brings an abundance of light.
Banishes all darkness & shadows.
At night, short & sweet:
Only dreams
Of hope.
***
Dreams of colour, splintered light.
The darkness behind the mirror leaves us with the shortest night.
And hope slow burns.
Honoured to share a page with Karina Brink @KarinaMSzczurek
The trees pump
All summer the trees pump the rust-red up through roots, trunks, branches. Now, as it reaches their leaves, they heavily, heavenly, fall.
We walk away from our past
We walk away from our past and memories pile up behind us, blocks and rocks and shards of bright stained glass. The rising-sun light lifts the colours of the memories and lays them flat in front of us, puddling and lakes and oceans toward the future horizon. We stride or stagger forward, ankle deep in colour.
My ears are dull
My ears are dull.
They do not hear the single threads
you hear in the harmony.
You say that love has many voices –
love is many voices –
braided, sometimes tangled,
voices tied in rope together.
My eyes are dull.
They do not see the single colours
you see in the rainbow.
You say that love has many colours –
love is many colours –
winding, sometimes twisted,
colours kaleidoscoped together.
I hear the chorus, not the voices,
until your voice stands out from others.
I see the rainbow, not the colours,
but without your colour there is no rainbow.
My heart is full.
It feels the endless ribbons
of colour, of voice,
that hold our hearts together.
You used to bring me rockets
“Waving sparklers in the rain – it was all a bit half-hearted, wasn’t it?”
“I enjoyed it. And the rockets were pretty.”
“I suppose so, but they didn’t take us anywhere did they? They didn’t even go anywhere except into the sky.”
“I’d like to go up into the sky. Think how exciting it would be. Flash! Bang!”
“And then you’d fall back to ground, unseen, uncared for, and that would be that.”
“But at least you would have been there, you’d have been colour for a minute. No matter what happened later. One minute would be enough.”
“You’ve changed.”
“You used to bring me rockets.”
simonsalento 