who wanted to ask why in a thousand colours
chalking it in the rain
now that the arbiters of colours fix their power
with the glue that won't wash off
after so many washings.
after so many washings I have tried and found
the hopscotch marring wanting.
the chalk paintings shine like mirages
in the clouds and they live on so
that little children looking up
if they look up
accept the sky bourne Christmases
as if they were a birthright.
so much washes away
from day to day
and who am I to say
if the poem is apropos.
it is a soul a soul a soul
you will not speak away
from the platform you think
exceeds even God's whose
oceans wash themselves
without your saying, 'it is so...'
continually and
the brooks wash the coloured stones
I will not throw into the ripples of
the why of a thousand colours
in crowded rooms they ignore,
they ignore. at the interminable parties.
mary angela douglas 3 november 2015
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem