Rain

by Tris Kerslake

I did not see these colours before nor catch their subtleties or shaded tones, I only saw the dry, the dusty bake of endless sun before the rain.

My feelings were not stirred before set hard among the clay of foreign walls, I only knew the itching of a strange desire for absent things.

Glorious gladflowers shuffling daisily sinuous grass by a tumbling lazy of brilliant glossies the fabulous fractions of colour of colour of lightfully diligent colour.

I knew the fallow ivory of many books which spoke in careful words of tint and hue, but seeing only words, I let them sleep within my eyes.

And then the clouds came at me largely grey, they offered nothing new, except their contents were more magical than alphabets.

Drowning in spirals closing on sunlight ripping me up with the sharpest of brightness’s boisterous angels smothering naturals colour the colour of breathing and sunrise.

The art is not that I can see but that my sight is keener now, I speak the secret words dormant in this dusty place before the rain.