Volley

To no-one in particular:

If it weren’t for blue,
It would be red.
It is either the toe
Or the top of the head.

If it weren’t the sky,
It would be the salt of the earth,
It is either the fire
Or the flagstone hearth.

If it wasn’t the crashing
Of the china plates,
It would be the grating
Of the iron gates.

Sometimes to the moon
Or to the star, I point,
Sometimes one or the other
Or all of these disappoint.


*************************************************************




No-one responds:


It is blue and red
Also green and yellow
And all kinds of music
Not necessarily mellow

It is the scream of the child
The dense of the wild
As for spices, they range from
Fiery to mild

It is a voice too loud
Or a manner too brusque
It is the stagnant despondency
Of a Sunday dusk

In the scheme of one’s own,
Not all of them fit,
But for that very scheme,
One lives with it.