A circle of chairs – lace-backed, pink chintz style
in the day-lounge of Wits End old folk’s home.
Above the beige-tiled fifty’s fireplace, ten matchstick men
all do their best to climb a rainbow, with its Prussian blue
oil-primed linen sky …
their arms outstretched as if to touch the fluffy, puffs
of whisper-coloured smudges
and fork-tailed, blue-black specks that seem to flit, perchance
to fly, to somewhere on the other side.
“If they can, why can’t I?” they might well wonder.
Shed the odd tear or two, if only matchstick men could …
Comments
MistakenMagic | September 10, 2008 - 16:29
Such a wonderful read with beautiful imagery!
Loved 'whisper-coloured smudges' and this stanza;
'and fork-tailed, blue-black specks that seem to flit, perchance
to fly, to somewhere on the other side. '
Silver Spun Sand | September 10, 2008 - 17:34
Thanks, so much. I remember the old folk's home my dad was in and over the fireplace was such a picture, just as I described it. Glad you saw it too;-)
Tina
Nathan Bednarek | September 10, 2008 - 18:15
A big well done. I love the structure of this poem and it's in perfect harmony with the rhythm. Well done again.
Nathan.
Silver Spun Sand | September 10, 2008 - 20:35
Nathan - your words much appreciated. You've made my evening, thank you;-)
Tina