Words Fail Me

There was a painter before some water lilies

tossing up whether

to paint

and fail

or not to paint

and fail

absolutely.

​

Failing, he painted again.

Faith in the potential of new scrawls

in new combinations

in new orders.

Faith, or delusion,

that a moving pond might be stilled by a paintbrush.

I scrawl what I cannot say.

Speak:

Of the west-facing afternoons

winking through the bottlebrush.

Of car-window wonders,

in clouds’ communion.

Of her floral loveliness,

which at once both

blooms and settles.

Of walking one-way streets

where every step is a new goodbye.

Of the scaffolds falling away,

and the blushing of the new façade

in a watching world.

Do I speak fact or fiction?

Do you recognise me?

Do you recognise you?

There is no lie here.

Someone scrawled across the city walls

and they look like the margins of my maths book.

Water lilies are dear faces,

lit by viridian and violet.

I will try again to still my pond.

~

​

This poem is part of a project titled, 'Tell Me How You Really Feel'.

See the rest of the project here.