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
