Poem — Philip Temple

Colours at sixty

I still exclaim at the blue
mediterranean, you say
but it moved long ago to here.
Outside your bolted bedroom window
the gum hums peach with bees
strewing the path with needles
bright subterfuge for a wedding
of peach and blue and green
tired in the afternoon.
All the colours that were hot
now slide with your glance
into shadows at the edge of the garden.

Philip Temple

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