Changing Colour

In the years before fire stripped me bare, 
I was so confident that I used my colours straight. 

Red was red or vermillion
occasionally slumping towards maroon. 

Yellow was the colour 
of a child’s crayon-drawing of the sun. 

Green was backlit grass in the morning
replete with a magpie listening with his feet. 

Blue was the sea or sky 
or the eyes of my dead son. 

Even that 
did not strip me bare. 

I still had to prove myself or something 
make money or fame. 

I was still carrying 
my mother. 

These days I am as pure as a teardrop
and there are many of those. 

There are many of those, 
washing, washing. 

By now my colours are so muted 
they hardly know themselves. 

Still, dandelions know their true colour, 
as does the sky between rain squalls. 

There are a million different greens 
pushing up through the char. 

And red? Will you ever forget the colour 
of fire?

4 thoughts on “Changing Colour

    1. No. But I do know how many not quite poems are in the drawer. (I didn’t know that 7 months ago! There’s a whole heap of things I no longer have to concern myself with!) Thanks Louise.

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