As in the petals of roses after the hoarfrost,
A sickening shade of late bloom
And whithered summers.
Barely the metallic shine of your gaze at dawns,
As you unfold from my touch.
Rather the vivid yellow of canola fields,
As they encircle my waist into unfolding grace,
And distil my laughter
Into the slippery dust of your lens.
As the age of our youth,
Brief, yet meaningful, summerlike mostly.
Like the oyster that adorned the fleece
At the depth of a forgotten sea.
And, definitely, the music that comes
From the swing of things.
As for the rest, I’ll come to you in colours.