Our New Carpet's The Colour Of... - Poem by Diane Hine
a rainbow slurry, but not the cleaved white of rainbow light; it's
a charcoal and goethite rainbow; a Pleistocene pigment pit;
an ochre shindig greased on a rock ceiling. Bog ore brown say;
possibly snuffsnot. We chose brown so it wouldn't show tea slops.
Nat can't knit without a pattern or play without sheet music
or assemble flat-packed furniture without instructions. She
can cook without a recipe but only to please herself.
Keith ate a kipper. Descaled, gutted, smoked, tinned and masticated,
he thought it was dead. Later when he leant it leapt, still fresh!
He swallowed to quash the herring's dissent. It will swim again.
All winter Cracticus Magpie croons ‘Come September'. Each Spring
he sings his defence as persuasively as Caractacus.
He'd like to split my skull to extract the word which skulks inside.
Comments about Our New Carpet's The Colour Of... by Diane Hine
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You