The colour is lavender,
not brisk purple or clouded shift
of the intertwining shades of pink and blue
but lavender, far seen in flowers
the delicate
like the first kiss when retold one could claim
might have been stolen yet by blushing
the profession tells there’s yearn;
anticipation for one that’s making it’s trip.
It’s lavender, surreal of a softness
my mother’s humming gospel each Sunday morning
or father’s ever silent presence
the feeling of a homely place
regardless where we’d get next month’s rent.
That colour, my harmony’s identify
it’s my welcoming sky
to my dying land and the in between filled
with chaos, care of endless hope.
How it calms my sight but doesn’t blind
let’s me the unsettled think for a moment
beyond blue and white
but there, that next step to take
The colour is lavender.

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