title. an ongoing red
right now. Second year studying History
current favourite writer. Owen Sheers. and Alex.
An Ongoing Red
Red draws me back to that first spark.
The one you lit when you handed me that CD
in a tired, blank citroen.
"This is what I listened to when I was young"
A want to share, not impose.
Chrissie Hynde's red jacket. Her defiantly unfeminine voice.
That's what I remember.
The poignancy bouncing off and igniting a love for rock- hilariously
8 years old, feet still dangling, the blurred countryside.
Her jacket the colour everyone told you was your favourite-
several years later, you revealed it wasn't.
We were surprised.
Swift and elegant, my mother's hands tie the crimson silk bows around the house.
Door knobs, the stairwell,
we steal one for the dog.
My father, wellies lined in a thick red sock,
carrying the scent of damp wood and coal.
Her hair tumbling from a black velvet hairband and,
I can't understand why they call her redheaded.
Those locks are a brilliant orange.
A poignant, soft and silently strong colour.
The burgundy old navy jumper. Carrying with it a blurred childhood memory,
a missing marble.
An intriguing boy who had to watch all the video adverts and sucked spaghetti
so that it whipped
and stained him red.
A red transformer.
A snatched flash of time.
Red was the colour you emitted when you shone, not the one you left when you had to go.
A tired red car, music that fed a love.
An aux cable guarded by your thigh.
A long mocking Summer, hungover Pink Lemonade.
Hearing my name for the first time.
Quick, strong lines.
A borrowed red jumper, several blue t shirts.
A soft, vulnerable flash of time, a stabbing city.
Red 1st class stamps, shutting off see through words.
A bouncing boy in a red polka dot Alabama jumper. Floppy haired and asking
"Have we drifted apart?"
You cannot drift intentionally and
my sails are packed away tightly.
Fresh, quick, passionate
I see red in your tomato sauce and blurred hands, reminding me
of your Father's creased tanned hands
gently holding up a paper bag for me to smell. The strong colour of your culture.
When I see red I see you both, fiery words, hidden passions,
making me see people.
I see flattened Tunnocks Tea Cake wrappers.
I see a hot rod of iron, red and untouchable at the ends,
cool and peaceful in the centre.