Drawing a Line by Stella Wulf

I am not a silent poet

You hadn’t prepared for Stony Ground,

feeling inclined to a touch of flesh and blood,

vibrant, intense, Incarnadine.

Now you’re rolling out the Night Sky

with its scumble of Pearl,

drowning the deep Sea Blue,

in a muddy skim of Dead Salmon,

a dull neutrality of appeasement

for off-milk folk who might come after,

who spurn contrast and colour,

who can only live with New White,

Old White, or at a push,

Churlish Green.

You’re moving on, effacing the past,

but you vote for the Miró-esque mural

to remain, on the grounds of history.

‘An old house should resist,’

you say, ‘retain some of its mystery,’

like the World War Two pistol

you found in the rafters of the barn,

and pencilled on the lime-wash walls,

the names and ages of a family harboured,

erased one Mole’s Breath night.

You dip into Pitch Black,

make an arc around the sickle…

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