Sky
the colour of wet slate, clouds like smudged chalk, up to the demarcation of a
double rainbow.
Beyond
this: perfect edged white, cyanine stillness.
Other words, immaterial: other frescos, outshone.
Nature
flummoxes with a magnitude we can only faintly sketch.
I
attempt to describe a feeling of symbiotic absorption. Cross out notes, words
are too clumsy. Allude to a space behind words, a silent resonance.
Rain gathers, confers; at the right density, it drops.
Now you've got me wondering if there's a saturation point to the soul. Thanks for one of the finest pieces of writing I ever saw.
ReplyDeleteA saturation point for the soul? That is something to think on, Geo! I'm inclined to say yes, I feel like this might be true. And thank you for a fine comment :-)
ReplyDeleteCome and paint my Shropshire/Welsh border sky; your palette need only contain shades of grey. Perhaps you can make a grey poem from it?
ReplyDeleteHello Friko :-) Grey is a much underestimated colour. Today my little Cornish world is sunk in mist, it's beautiful! x
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