Poems

The Colour of Water

Rain falling, day after day,
as if trying to clean off
our permanent stains,
but all it does is discolour
this well-worn shirt,
and wash the memory
of all the passing seasons
from the walls.

This is not summer
nor autumn nor winter:
sometimes I recognize myself,
then forget.

Maybe after so much rain
all colour will be washed out
and my shirt then be the colour of water.

 

8.9.2008

 

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