Dark descends as sky extends her palms of candied pink;
Earth below reflects her glow in watercolour ink.
Flossy clouds in evening shrouds spin filaments of light;
Shadows stretch as ripples fetch the moon, and say goodnight.
Winter’s brush, with frozen bristles
Decorates the thorns and thistles –
Weaves her words to paint a spell
That beautifies the weeds as well
As ever Solomon was dressed
In kingly robes and royal crest;
Her art, expressed in silver tones,
Becomes the flesh to drape bare bones,
Makes beautiful the cold mundane,
Declares the glory of her reign.
I, who humbly view her show,
Am lured, enraptured by the snow.
She fought it hard, this slow death.
cell that relinquished its green
became the Enemy – each
sag, each ache, each decaying
limb strangled her dreams with dry
rot, made hope a withered thing.
The colour came later, much
at first, drops of iodine
swirling in a glass. One day
she woke up amber;
one more dying struggle, one
further convulsive release
and scarlet draped her shoulders.
Now one with the world’s sunsets,
her fight is no longer with
the pain that has painted her
so robust a shade. No, she
lives, dying, more alive than
ever before, breathing air
tinged gold, dreaming newer dreams,
with expectant undertones.