I do not know what colour it is.

It lies between the strings of a harp,
and in the stories unfinished that
may occasionally even be true.

It is in the ‘what if’s,
all of them.

It is the silence of a stone
plummeting through the heart of a pond.

It is the fourth shape of a cloud.

And when you hold your breath
it calls your name, if you know
how to listen for it.

wintermorning

Advertisements