our watercolours fade cruelly today


our watercolours fade cruelly today
not from the huffing spring mists
with their green taunting
moist licks

nor with startled tears which
almost flap our sweet little linen folio
into the strings of memory’s winds:

that day
spring was our fire,
ours so firm, only ours fanning the
defiant Azeri flames out of the blind sands
when we gleefully splashed across the boulevard
back into the retreat
of our blankets

now our colours, once a tight flock of starlight
coalesce to dull gouache here and there
and alone I caress the edges thanking
the darkness for its mercy, of
returning to candle-pitch
its black flows

now I hold in my mind’s hands this masterpiece
which we did craft so very insanely
knowing that we made it through

discovering if anything
sprouts on the other side
of love

we don’t care


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