With words, as a bored child with paint might play,
I dabbled with fond images of you.
As if but not to tarry through the day,
A word of red, another yet of blue.
A word red for love of crimson deep;
A word of blue for trust that’s true and pure.
A word of green, for you my heart to keep;
A word of white, your beauty to immure.
A word of grey when you of leave must take,
A word of pink to herald your return,
A word of black when you my love forsake:
A splash of rainbowed hope, for which love yearns.
Yet as time passed, it grew quite plain to see;
I did not play with words, but they with me.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.