, , , , , , , , ,


I touch
with reverent fingertips
my sister’s bedroom walls.
once a brilliant crocus yellow,
vibrant and aflame,
a fresh coat of paint
testament to a new home,
a new freedom,
a new start.

now the sunshine emulsion
is faded to the dusty golden
of a cherished old teddy
in the airing cupboard,
held together by patches and repairs.

beneath the paint
the anaglypta is like
stalks of wheat
waving in the breeze.
but we are a ruined crop,
ungathered, turning
to dust in the wind.