Indescribable. The Colour That Cannot Be Written



The rose that bloomed in October –

good, among the silvery leaves, the sun filled grass

that it was not red as blood

with its ribaldry and its death

that is glaucous and more

horrifyingly tedious than flesh itself

but cerise as satin pillows

Not Naples red, but Italian pink

crimson of water ice

damask of muslin

solferino of Cerberus

the magic lantern of Ceres

and madder sunsets than these

mallow of skies


This rose sheds its petals over the place

where you lay in my dream

it is the rare wine of my love for you

bringing to life

the sweet bread of your imaginary presence