Colour has no name

A blind man sits in a room full of people.

He knows not colour nor its name. Only the roaring compression of sound.

But to say his life is lacking in hue would all but be a lie.

He lives in a symphony and floats within its mutable melody.

Colour to this man is the warm inflection of the Grocers tone, the peal of a laugh, the uplifting rush of an open window in a speeding car.

Sometimes, it appears in quieter tones.

Like the warm sigh that tickles your chest in the cool hours of the morning, expanding your heart and melting your worries.

Colour can be the boiling heat of an argument or the indomitable rolling of the tears that follow.

Colour, well its something that cannot be snatched at.

Only enjoyed for its inexplicable beauty and redolent pain.

So a blind man sits in a room full of people.

He knows not colour nor its name.

But when another's calloused hand slides into his, familiar and lovely.

He thinks, perhaps I feel colour aplenty.