Winter Water

In the pristine white the
colour comes like all the life
there was and is and will be
falls suddenly

like leaves:  rust, red, cherry,
flame, brown, gold, yellow,
orange, pink

and all the colour sinks
into the snow as if a fire burned
through

my heart is blue and cool
like a deep stretching ocean
like a quiet evening sky -
all the moments when I was a
fool, or tongue-tied, or just
not there, are leaves
on the water now

rushing the cascades over stones
through weed as if I could
cleanse all the mud and silt
heft it over the edge and
spill like a waterfall, all
my pieces dancing

rainbow in the air - all the
good glass parts of me, the
sharded self caught by the
sun in flare and I
soar again as if I never
could hit the ground

and break apart - that
one hit reverberates through
my bones, the echoes never
cease, the water ripples still
extend outward never-ending
rills until I will fall
off the edge of the world
where all the colours run.

There is peace in the void:
silence, nothing, no-one, no
heart ache no body worm, no
thing to hold you down as you
drift, all done, all said, all
been, hands down the best run
where no knives are wielded
all burdens null.

And I'll come over the
brow of the hill
with my satchell and down the
lane she'll be at the gate,
waiting,
and I'll run and run and run.

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