Colour,
he saw colour
in a park, a simple park
on a Sunday, in the summer.
Colour,
he painted colour
in that park; clear, considered
untainted, untampered
colour,
specs of colour,
rays of light
in a park
on a Sunday, in the summer
in a season of details, in a salon of specifics
under demands to consolidate, co-operate.
Colour,
he saw colour,
a canvas of light and colour,
a carnival of colour.
Colour,
he saw colour
in a park, on people
simple people, working people
fishing people, fidgeting people
not polished people, not posh people.
They buried him
in a park,
another park,
a quieter park
but still with light and colour.
They buried him
and then they buried his son
and then another,
life and death,
father and sons,
children and art,
children or art but only art survived.
He saw colour
on a Sunday, in a park, on…
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mortonica 