The Point of Colour

The red of those fuchsias,
Those skinny ballet-dancers hanging from a few tall stems over the front wall,
Was not red for informational purposes.
Was not red, just so that they might be briefly recognised.
Not red, just for the fucking service of you.
No, the red, that red, was an honour, an education.
It was a red that was before red.
A red that reminds you that you’re alive, unsafe.
That this, this arrow slit is open both sides
And you might just find those flowers
Fly right through at you and colour all over the back of your brain
Leaving you, as you turn to look at something else,
Feeling shaken,
Drawn over,
Taught something.

fushias

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Mark on the floor

How could he put it?

Something about the obedience of things that touched him, yesterday.

That small droplet of water on the side, by the kettle, in the morning.

How long had it been there like that?

The mark on the floor, the dust on the skirting,

The untroubled leaf mould in the ditch, down by the side of the house, holding bulbs and bits of litter.

Then, on his evening walk, some captive light

In that parked car that faced west over the college sports grounds.

He’d have liked to sit inside that quiet cabin a while.

Yes, something about the reliability of these things.

Their willingness to show up.

To be a consistent version of themselves,

Until disturbed.