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.






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