Yellow is the sun of childhood <br />the certain day <br />the fine silk strands <br />of youthful years <br />and wearing them <br />in a simple dress <br />of pale shantung <br />natural delicate <br />rustling against warm thighs <br /> <br />Yellow is a daisy-chain of memories <br />picking primroses in the woods <br />on Mothering Sunday <br />mailing them home in a tin box - <br />the flowers arranged on damp moss <br /> <br />sandals on sea fronts <br />Italian ice-cream <br />English mustard in a blue glass pot <br />Welsh rarebit and tea <br />with my father on visiting days. <br /> <br />Yellow is perfect dawn - <br />a bouquet of open beaks in a nest <br />promising next year <br />and the year after next <br /> <br />it is the pure primary before the smudges <br />of growing up clouds it with tears <br /> <br />Yellow is a hurting joy like Chopin <br /> <br />it clings with tendrils to my mind <br />the jaundiced hopes <br />the cancelled love <br />the chances left behind <br />all sprawl in sallow clusters <br />on the canary vine <br />taunting me <br /> <br />Yellow is the chink of light under the door- <br />the handle I cannot seem to turn <br /> <br />(Nov.2004) <br />(Senneville, Québec)<br /><br />Philippa Lane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yellow/
