Our bodies are a while in colour, whirl
in whirl of hues with which we paint our sky,
daub meagre tints over the times we sigh
when, while entwined, we make our palms unfurl;
the paths we tread are filled and so they swirl
with shades and shadows uncontrolled, yet high
and flying are the times these colours cry
and dipped within their passing, moments curl
around our selves. The sheets upon which we
have lain are painted with our passionate
essays in composition, texture and
collage, and in our canvases we see
the nights we colour in impressionate
whirlings like life lines carved within each hand.

Whirlings like life lines carved within each hand
stir slowly in the seas, to mark upon
the world the image of a history gone –
in the whirlpool careful times are lost, and wend
their fatal way into our memories’ land –
filled with the spectres of the past, and on
whose skins are carved battles lost and won –
but waters wash the writings from the sand,
and so it is that in remembering, we
fall wholly into each other’s hands, to cleanse
each other. Years swim apart and all we feel
are burdens slipping off, and so we see
with newer eyes and touch with newer sense –
our bodies are a while, a colour wheel.


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