Colours

I am intrigued -

struck by waves of emotion
when he speaks her name to me.
I feel the warmth of tenderness
draped around his bulk.

These are the re-collections of a man.

Who would consider
that inside my tent of dreams
lay a little boy,
smelling of Lizzy's scent
and fragranced cream -

As I wander across to the living-room
I see flashes of yester-year;
pictures of Ray with arms spread wide
reaching for the boy
standing by my side;

The vulnerability of a man
is hard to detect
until he speaks of a woman
he dearly respects,
heat of affections grit his voice
with recalls of Lizzy's embrace.

The boy and the man

The morning sky rains
soft gentle spots
pancaked by gusts of wind.
Vincent's eyes are drawn
from the soft slosh on the sill
as he stares from his home
on the hill.

The clip clop of the grandfather clock
raises reveries of a time long ago,
when the aroma of
freshly baked scones
offered comfort
from winters’ cold;

I swipe at the patter of raindrops
and esteem Vincent's courage,
“Today I feel tender,
sad;
a little vulnerable;
I need my mom and dad!”.

It is the man not the boy that speaks.

“I Guess its just one of those things,
I miss them so much today!”,
mourns the son of Lizzy and Ray.

the evening clouds yellow

I am merely a passing floater
who lived Vincent Bartlett's moments
through the splash of colour
in the now evanescing canvas,
on the living room wall.

It is the boy inside the man I saw.

(C) Jambiya
"The Power of Words".