Purple

I feel a supple touch of purple flowing over my calves and ankles.
It is a gentle call to wake with a lingering hint of dreamland, and promises.
I am not ready. Purple is my deepest silence, my slumber of succour.
I grasp its rich fur by a familiar corner and halt the cascade.
Vaguely aware I am not alone in this tug-of-war.

I feel a supple touch of purple flowing over my buttocks, back, shoulders.
The promises of night return with the first touch of eyelids.
I am not in a rush. Purple will take me as it does and cocoon my spirit.
Keeping it safe for a time, constraining it along with my sanity.
I want to feel the comfort of purple imprisonment, for a time.

I feel a breezy river of purple fly playfully over my everywhere.
It is a demand to rise with an urgent command to attend, and live.
I am not angry. Purple is my brume fantasy, uncurtailed but transient.
I call to its departure with a half-held belief and reach out my hand.
And caress against my other-corner competitor, fingers locking.

I feel a gentle kiss of purple brush against my cheek and ear.
It is a whisper of life and all the beauty of nature, and promises.
I am not averse. Purple and I have met before and will again.
I open my reticent eyes and oh joy, it was all a tempting trickery.
Purple, flung out, descends as a magic carpet. I will fly again tonight.

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Tags:

baf, brett, carpet, foster, magic, photobloke, poem and purple