Water Colour
by Pamela Macphail

Water colour sunlight
paints the chair
and fingers on the arm
thrumming impatient
worry in the dawn.
I'm here where I
am supposed to be,
with reluctant tolerance
to those unconscious
rituals, borne
of familiar presence
and love remembered.
Twisting a strand
loosened from a braid
until it looks like dread
locks on a wannabe Marley
and I realize
there'll be no more jammin'.
Ask me why silent
torment is better
than mourning
what can't be saved.
I'm here where I
don't want to be
in water colour dawn.

Copyright 2019 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.