The accolades like garlands
all around you,
each flower of the palette
in your soul

I saw suns glint in violet eyes,
such rare colour,
your rose petal smiles
on dew laden sward 

You drew me pastel people,
tore them to pieces,
casting high like confetti
in a lavender breeze

Your delicate hand would
demand I take it,
frog march me around
your patchwork garth 

We’d sit in white stillness 
at Indian summer’s end,
our toes dangling in pools
of murky green

And when the grey winds came
soughing demons around us,
you closed that rickety gate
toward Michaelmastide.

copyright Francis Barker 2019