Walking down the River Lea
and the canal
barges nesting neatly on the banks,
swans, (miraculously white,)
gliding like Tchaikovsky through
rainbow slick oil and
alien green soap suds,
I must say,
what strikes me
is so much grey.
Colour is there
but the dust jacket stops it
I am cynical as doubting Thomas
about the transformation potential.
Then the sun comes bounding from some hidden grey of its own,
to pure, surprising gold.
Lamb's (lettuce) to the slaughter?
5 days ago