They say you never reach your rainbow,
the one that you can see.
You cannot breach its scarlet rim
and pause, encased in amber,
before your yellowed strides grow green
when, blue-rinsed, you stand,
stretch an indigo drenched hand
and watch your fingertips drip
But when I glance up from my crossword
to track your stubborn, shoreline walk
through spattered windscreen,
a lance of light cuts cloud,
and you, small, solid, dark and distant
step into my rainbow.
Doused in my multicoloured mists
you stop and stoop, reach a hand
as if to raid my pot of gold,
submerged in shades of blue.
Then you straighten, walk on,
beyond my phosphorescent hues.
Eventually you reach the car
weeping wan, insipid rain.
I start to tell you where you’ve been
but you silence me
with one, cold, wet, pickened hand
which holds your gift; my treasure:
An iridescent shell which glows
with all the colours of the rainbow.
© E M S Petrie 2015