My third colour poem makes the triad of painter’s primaries. It takes its starting point from a lively tune I remember from the radio when I was a small boy. Of course I didn’t know then that the origins of the song went back over a hundred years earlier, or what the lyrics were about.
Children’s Favourites skip sung when the Light Programme played,
We never knew the words weighed the shade of her fair black skin.
But you’re two hues bipolar. Sun warmed summer hot and sandy,
Aloof lemon ice cool tinkle, spliced clean with bitter gin.
Blue primes wide eyes for marvelling, red beckons a risky touch,
You summon tastes and scents, rich, rancorous and divine.
Sunflowers swagger full of you, Vincent’s layers spiralled wild,
Lush the striped bees to sup: narcissus, daffodil and dandelion.
Oilseed hi-viz middle-distant solid, throat clinching acrid closer in,
Jersey notwithstanding, the field knifes the cyclist’s palate to a gasp.
Asterisk work well-done, justice pinned proud on the sheriff,
Shame hate stitched to death, a hand sewn crop of disaster.
We’ll curry you hot in turmeric, lick the sweet sweet custard spoon,
Yolk, crack, whip, and mouth the baker’s textures. An anticipation of banana.
Last chance before you’re off, mate. The washed-up admiral now cast ashore,
Now ribbon hauled back with hope, resurrection cradled in the Sea King’s gift.
Jaundiced, fever-coloured, piss, puss, puke. Cadmium,
Chromium, hazard warning toxic, picnic safe in the old school bus.
A sun dressed priest, all butter furze and breezy, my saffron spring gorse,
Tropic chords spread thick on rising air, thorns girt sharp to spike me.