I see through that distant prism
a faint refraction
of a pure indigo
shun from
the final coloured drops
of a painters wheel
of a primary
bathed in
Glorious glow

I see beyond that optimal,
in rare subtractive
through the tired
brushes of a
finite artist’s
real sublimity
sitting alone,
stranded by the sea,
sketching that perfect sunset
Far beyond,
fragmented,
through the spectrum
of a visual secondary
Sun showered cyan,
Golden often unseen
with marigold interludes,
and they hang around
in comfort shades
shielding sired souls
with warmth, then
In ecstasy of a full crest
little magentas rise
abruptly upon
soft waves of nagging desire
and
lull from deep within,
Slowly at first, and then
in a tumultuous overture
playing many million tunes
in wet velvet wilts,
in full synchronicity,
As a final surge
takes control
Of that imperfect rainbow of love
In full stroke,
weakened,
by every coloured sense
In every aching grid
In that final completed frame
Of that perfect delight.