Colours: On Being Misunderstood

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Green

The axis of the world.

It cradles the globe with mossy arms,

Devours muted soil,

Fills hungry lungs with peppermint comfort.

New birth, new brain, new land,

It is responsible for all.

Chlorophyll fingers leaf through

Paper wads; its own flesh.

The banker of growth, 

The rural tinged-reservoir,

Inky engine fumes - infested.

They sink into its wind-dipped skin,

Translucent with age.

It is nature’s menial,

Yet, still it arises as the disgust

That flushes disfigured faces 

With gurgling insides:

They call it sea-sickness.

Blue

A crude sea sponge,

Saturated in midnight ink,

Tickling the ribs with gloom.

Waltzing in the glassy bubbles of soiled puddles,

It nestles as a soft dampness behind the eyes. 

Unseen, unheard, unbridled sorrow;

It is a Victorian child.

A silhouette that leaks salt-crust residue

For today’s Eucharist.

Undone and forgotten like a candle wax skeleton, 

Yet, still it is assigned to the cosmos,

And to wealth.

Royalty is spat at like proud mud,

Cross-sectioned by a gold blade:

They call it esteemed.