A Study in Colour

I sit and read
Poetry, listen to the
Wind  hurrying
Round  the house
Fussing at the
Windows
Bustling anxious
Hands  wiping
Bare walls clean
Of winter dust and
Grime.

And  the room
Around  me  writhes
In blue and pink
Profusion pattern
Curling never still
No  straight lines
Live here
Ordered frozen
It folds in upon
Itself in contemplation
Of its riot undirected
There  purely
For  the sight.

And  as I wander
From   my book,
Eye  the silence
And  the curling
Pinks  and blues
I hear you

In the kitchen
The  other side
Of the wall
Chopping  carrots
For  the pan;
Feel you
Hardly  at all
Now;
Ail that once
Had  flowered
And  climbed

At the start
Has died back to
Scrub, a few brown
Stumps scattered
Withered of
All charm.

And  I wonder
How  much  harm
You  do
Depriving me of
Light and warm
Oh yes I have
Superb food
A  warm  bed
Suffused with presence
But you
Shared of yourself
Hardly at all
I was used to the sight
Of your  back
The  tut
Of your  throat
As I tried to be
Friendly.

So you see
Even  with words
To comfort  me
Elements to enhance
My  sense of fortune
At being under
A  roof

And  colour to
Delight my  eye
Still these cannot draw
My  thought
From  this yawning
Gap  that cries
Blackly at my
Feet and as I
Lift my head
And  look

I see you always
On  the other side
Of the wall
Gazing away
From  me.
I have no line
To  throw you
You  would  not
See it
Even  if I
Had.

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