Sunday, November 18

Autumn

The not-quite-qualifying-for-winter, wearing jumpers, layers, scarves, shopping for gloves, losing gloves on the bus which you nicked off a train; now with the rain which seems a continuous stream, a collusion, frontal rainfall apparently; leaves of raw sienna nudging windsor violet, permanent mauve, indian yellow, on top of stagnancy – no cobalt, no blue, no reflected skies with cloud – and pushing, pushing, plucking your stare, the cadmium, always cadmium, the colour they try to put in kitchens which is only best on trees full of leaves; walking faster than cars which sit, steamed up in traffic jams, beeping softer than the city, walking and rain again so shoes are damp, wet, sodden, and on the radiator, topsy-turvy, drying off, peeling the folds of jeans, as the scarf unravels, falling to the footprinted carpet.

2 comments:

Dark Daughta said...

Reading, I could here the voice of the poetess in my head. No, we haven't met, but the sound of the words flowing one after the other, into each other with colour, shade, line and rhythm, gave me a voice to follow as I roamed.

Katy Murr said...

I'm smiling, that's got to be a good thing. I know what you mean about a voice - one just appears, as you're reading in your mind. (Poet or poet-ess? I wonder about the suffixes which note that the person is female. I'm learning German at the moment as well, which I don't know whether you know, but it has a lot of those sorts of suffixes, only they're generally still obligatory in German... to our dextriment or not?) I love autumn, its colours, and miss painting a lot!