The Flow of Colour

A river.

Swirling rainbows twisting and twirling

Where currents would run.

Mud at the banks, frothing a brown grey mess,

The ropes of colours gone, reduced.

Brown and grey, squelching footfalls sucking at the memories.

The mood of the past dulled to brown grey fastness.

The livid vivid primary glow of life in its prime ascenscening

So brightly etched, like the rivers of magik broiling.

Life.

Flowing, painting with the palette all greens and blues and yellows.

Writ large upon the canvas of time.

Flowing as the rivers flow, leaving the wash of brown and grey in its wake.

Life paints anew, a fresh canvas each and every day, a fresh pallet.

The memories washing to brown, dying to grey waters, all colour gone.

History.

Far behind the colour finds new purchase.

The racing white of the clouds, the rich blues of clear skies,

The sky fortress of greys built heavy in the promise of rain,

And evening song, as sun follows rivers beyond our sight.

The rich red, a final memory to our blood spilt to earth,

To sky, to river, once in colours vibrant, just memories faded grey.