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Andrew Shiston

The Colour of Warmth

You cannot spin the suns rays
For they are golden light
Clothing earth with warmth
Encompassing, coloured green
A rainbow of colour so bright
Growing the flowers, the smell
Seeing the sweet taste
Tasting the colours on your fingers
Bright as a bird in flight
White as a gulls feathered wings
Blue as the flooding tides
Gray as the ebbing, yellow as the sand
You cannot spin the suns rays
For they are golden light
Clothing the earth with warmth
A rainbow colour of sight.

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A Day in Late Spring

The fog is lifting and the foghorn silent
On the point of Portland Bill
The lighthouse light extinguished
Only seagulls now are shrill
This late day in early spring
Time passes slow, as in the Islands church
Light through stained glass windows
Sends shadows through the crypt
And from the candles, tallow weeps
The smell of incense and dusty hymn books
Scratched pews and threadbare seats,
In this sailors ancient graveyard
Daffodils and fog wet grasses
Grow against long uncared for headstones
A tantilising harmony of joy and grief
As once again the fog comes down
The foghorn once silent, now reverberates
Mist now creeps amongst the gravestones
Meandering like a thief.

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