Pink

The morning smudge of colour overhead
is warning for a shepherd or a man
who stooped to think his world was black and white
or that his walk to work was shades of drab.
The coral bedded streets near Walpole Park
a fraying piece of ribbon on a gate.
As cottage walls leap by in salmon stone
peer in the window, tightly, gently held:
a ball of terry towel. The next house has
such delicate mosaic on the door
by Greg the architect - his pound is pink.
And suddenly that colour’s everywhere
just like a movie when they pick out one
it’s pink and pink and pink and pink again.
The logo on the First Great Western train
and shockingly the doors are rosy too
and painted on the carriages a line
in pink that follows as I march along
the platform past a girl with shopping bags
picked out to match her pink and stilted shoes.
Then sitting opposite me on the train
his trousers and his jacket corporate grey
but just a splash of pink about his neck
a statement that he wrestles with his chains.
A squeal of brakes, a lurch, my journey done
I leap into the foggy London dawn
as if I’d drunk a blushing Zinfandel.
My step is perky and my cheeks are flush
the earth is blooming now; I’m in the pink.