Revisionist Poetry – Fenced in by a lack of Colour, v.3

Slats hush the meadow’s colour—
a palette scrubbed to ash.
A lone scarf, saffron and loud,
threads the wire like a stubborn note.

Hands on wood that tastes of rain,
fingers learn the map of gaps:
the world beyond made thin as paper,
made distant as a half-remembered song.

We keep our small bright things close—
the ribbon, the scarlet stone—
and watch the fences hold the rest.