Blue, grey, silver, white;
Sky can choose, as he so pleases.
Whether the temperature be cold or hot,
It matters not too much;
And within shortest notice.
Great Sky can change colour.
Trapped in our skin whatever the colour,
Looking outside ourselves;
We can live to appreciate each other.
At close up, or standback stance,
Lunging forward, flitting backwards-
The dance of the beautiful humming bird.
Beat, beat, wing beat of the humming bird;
Catches the notice of every flower.
Petals smooth or velvet to the touch;
Of shapes and sizes;
Attractive in array;
Forming the landscape into a pattern.
This skillfully crafted pattern,
Can only be copied by nature;
Herself the creator;
Aloof, untouchable, original.
The model conscious of her beauty;
Poised in the nude.
The artist paints her- nude;
And lays bare his soul,
On that canvas.
They stare, and stare;
Dumb struck, in the museums and the galleries.
He plys the street for his income.
A pitiable sum this income,
Stretched to limits;
Of mundane living.
The spell of quotidian-
through a maze of adventures;
While the hunter fixes a snare.
An animal in the wild in the snare;
Caught, while others remain free;
To execute the art of living.
Gillena Cox
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/colours-8/
