Water
Memory drips like coloured
spots onto the page
Just out of reach a blur
in the dreamtime of my vision.
These boxes black, cold, passed over
do not give up their secrets unless you pry
into their vibrant depths
connect, feel, breathe
and see what lies within
This is very true. (Lovely picture)
Thank you Shirley, these were my Dad’s paints and I’ve been thinking of doing something with them . The poem abut the paints turned into something deeper with thoughts about life and death and what lies outside our experience.