Purple Beech and Rowan Mountain Ash bring
green. Berries promised, distant autumn flame.
Daffs bloom bright after a dozen false Springs.
Our sky remains blue a fortnight of days.
Still, desire lines for places more inspiring
the unerring contrails of Easyjet planes.
Here, at home, spare pink shoots begin to grow
under the scarce light of a grey rainbow.
Think I got all the colours in. I enjoyed playing with the form and think I might force another couple of awkward poems into this shape and let them bounce back out of it more considered and pared and see what happens.