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Perhaps It Is The Colour, Which Invades

POETRY ~ by David Robert Tellett

Perhaps it is the colour, which invades the orphan verse;

It breaks, and wheeling, tumbles down before me. Whose flowered widows lay within the silent-rhythmed hearse,

Unload these paper trucks of cancered theory.

Perhaps it is the colour forced upon and inside, each

Emphatic bud; a church bell struck, uncertain

Breaths which fall in Autumn tenderness then speak

Of darkest visions held beyond the curtain.

Perhaps it is the colour, which invades the meadows pane;

Dark insects of the hollow boat house, knew

Of secrets in the wood which live on, deep in splintered frame

That burrow down to nerve and muscle-sinew.

Yet how are we to know you in the greenness of the chase,

The lamb that falls to fox before Spring’s gate?

As wake of Summer, turned to bed; a whispered prayer’s place

To dream the fall of sleep’s elusive weight. ~

© David Robert Tellett. All rights reserved.




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