brown.

You are in the dark waters of the sullen, resting lake.
You are there on the edges of the cracked oak skin.
You creep along the edges of my window in the rain,
And kiss the soft metal with rust.
With menace you drip from a gutter after storms,
And you seep between the floorboards in a lonely cottage.
You flutter through the air on a soft bat’s wing
And you decorate the quiet moth’s back;
Lighter than feathers,
Yet breathing and alive.
You encircle my pale wrist
And you line the bright eyes of the women in bars.
You are a slender trellis clad in delicate rose
And a gleaming piano top.
You are a slick, fat rat
And a mechanic’s oily hands.
You are the skirting in this room and the colour of my eyes
And you are warm and dark and comforting.
You are the smooth, yet hostile river.
You are the bitter coffee, the Christmas walnut,
The park bench and the dainty dry leaf.
You are sometimes melancholy and sometimes bright,
You are quiet and messy and menacing and dull.
But you are beautiful.