There are colours only angels can see,

Whose intricate fine tracery escapes twixt rod and cone,

Discerned once by Earth’s lesser god

Now by seraphim alone.

Delicate shimmering tint - weft and weave of fairy wing.

Coruscating acrobatics of the trill that finches sing,

Tumbling, twisting, thirruping and twittering,

Each with rainbow nuance glittering,

Weaving and twining with shimmering grace

Birdsong’s iridescent lace.

The chirrup of cicada - a rippling dappled flush.

The crisp and crinkle tinge of each autumn leaf’s soft blush.

Purple-green of salmon scale, flapping-leaping crazy.

Cool blue of evening oxygen, translucent dancing-lazy.

The shades that play within shadows; deep within deep the streak and the highlight,

Hidden to all but angelic eyes as they speculate the twilight.

Hues that fringe the promised bow, lustrous, shimmering, sheer,

Whose very names, a mystic tinkle, we are not tuned to hear.

Infra and ultra do them no justice - though they seek no such restraint

For they are free of rules and form and of definition’s taint.

They’ve permission to glissando, grandioso and crescendo

Or gently flutter, lightly fritter in soft diminuendo,

To implode upon themselves or to fill the earthly span

Wherever and whenever … except the mind of man.

Not since Eden.

There are colours only angels can see,

Perceptible no longer by the likes of you and me.

Would that Adam had not turned his orbs to lust

And closed our longing eyes to earth’s rich lustre.

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