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Geraldine Clarkson


Colour Me  


I plucked colour off a bush, broke it in my lap, and it bled a little blue then turned its coarse puce cheeks northward to puff out mini-clouds of milky yellow filched from primrose, scarcely there. A handful of heart in its eyes, home in its leaf-sprung boots. I watched it close to see if it blenched at new night sweeping in early. There was a white tube ogling from its chest, breaking through skin. I read it as despair-proud-silent-not-aloud. I brushed it with my palm, quick-feather strokes, and it jumped a little in response, flushed purple. I reached for its chin and gripped it carelessly to face the sun, a laughing orange ball rolling in cherried cream all along our garden’s horizon. Mother, I called in through the back door, propped open to let in draughts of prickly evening, I shall be in shortly! We’ll have a nightcap. And I turned to colour melting in my lap and holding me with its curious pourquoise gaze. 

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