Colours do run,

Colours do run,

Blurring lines of definition

Moving as light changes

Blending one into another.

A compound

Of fractured pigment

Floating in palm oil.

A melt of green leaf

Touched

By the hand of an artist

Filtered through

A palette of surprises.

Never still

Even when viewed

At night.

A black deepened by

The saddened shadow

Of faded dreams

Shaded romance

And the dirt striped white

Bones of roadkill.

The rot of once

Hot life

Bled dry.

Old ground stained

A deeper brown.

Negative images

Thrown against a backdrop

Of a rose in bloom,

Lipstick red

Smeared across the face

Of a weeping willow

Stooped low

With the weight of its burden

Brushing the water.

Home to

A kingfisher’s splash

Too loud to be subtle

Painted with a heavy hand

That in its broadest stroke

Sweeps

Dried leaves under

The cover of darkness,

Washing all traces

Of colour and blush

Out of the day

Leaving an age old canvas

Blank.

The hint

Of a sunset

Waiting to be primed

With more than

A monotone

Of eggshell blue

Brokered in midnight

Ash.

And the latent energy

Of a dying star.