Sylvia by Fran Baillie

out of her box,
the Boston beauty
her words, her colours.

Poisonous red of jarred bell-tulips
bitter orange, long-dead.
faded yellow, jaundice-tinted
sickly green, of envy bred.
forget-me-not, so cold and loveless
unfathomable indigo of deepest hue.
violet crushed so violently
all imbued with cruellest blue.

She brushed.

But Infidelity’s spectre
bleakest blackbird-black
cast its raven shadow,
skewed perspective.

Her landscape
became a wasteland,
burying that rainbow.

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