In a way there’s something different
A painting hangs just the same on
The wall that holds its breath and yet
It seems that the light now plays another
Symphony on the colours of the dawn.
This was never about the way that
The colours begin and end, but rather
Of the in-betweens and the twisted branches
Dripping ochre shadows and curious
Questions that have no answer.
Beneath the robust sheen of the ever
Shifting shades that never explain-
Only bask in the light handed down by
The souls of passers-by, walking the road
And their footprints just remain.