July 5, 2017
By Luckystar78 ELITE, London, Other
Luckystar78 ELITE, London, Other
114 articles 0 photos 97 comments

Favorite Quote:
"..though warm as summer it was fresh as spring." (Thomas Hardy) ("Far from the Madding crowd")

Apricot shaded with pearl-flavoured; glittery storks, that pierce through the bone, raspberry pink: meringue flowers blossom in the golden tinge illuminating from the sun: a clasp of daisies; shrivelled in a fist: a clutch of roses, thrown out onto the green mud bed. A river of water, trailing through the silver veil: that streams down in a line of bracelets: whose jewel catches the light: red and emerald and blue, as it sinks under the watered weeds, and the robin-stroked ducks. A ripple carves through the water, powered by the sun: as it slices its shimmering heat, onto the cold tears; that sever the paper-made boat above: an orange flag, slicing through the hums of music; made in a paddled haze of hands, a wooden sign painted tentatively onto the side of the classical shaft: that directs its nose onto the nose of the land. The sands shift and mirage; onto human eyes: flecked with marsh-blue rye, they wander round the desolate town, the lashings of rain spilling onto their flattened hair. The pink sandal steps forward, embedded in a salmon-shining shell: and glances through the blue ruins; and the falling gate; and sleeps into a season of waking carnations, and sun-streaked tulips: which scatter onto a sea-wet nail. A place where the sun: does not fade away like a battery, a duvet where the flowers: are not washed away; the paint old and stained: and the sky does not shine navy; but light blue; a painting; come to life. Where clouds are riddled with candyfloss: and moon rarely falls, and songs speed out of a Cadillac car; and if night falls, it seeps into the colours of daytime. As nature awakens to a heat-baked earth; insects are roasted in the greetings of the sun, and the visitor remains in this beautiful bed: until red leaves dust the earth with autumn.

The author's comments:

This is a seasonal poem: about nature; and a time when sun and poetry mix: like streaks of yellow paint embued with baby blue: to create art.

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