The Colour Of Water Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Holding a solid stick he was led
through the village by his daughter.
Those who were standing motionless said
nothing, while those sharing talk or laughter

made uncomfortable gestures of greeting
as if his knowing they were there
compelled some response, however fleeting.
His eyes had the milk-white stare

of someone who always saw clouds, never blue
sky, rich brown earth, even a tiny sliver
of green. And always the place she led him to
was the same: down to the tranquil river

where he would, for hours, sit and listen
to the colourful sound of the water,
almost as colourful as once when light glistened
in the laughter of his daughter.