We long to hear the pastel touches hidden
In vernacular black that
Crest upon our changing shore.
Our relationship has peaked and no bombast,
Cymbal-riding discourse will alleviate
This disquieting soundscape.
The storm outside gusts in torrents that
Color the shadings of tea cup and saucer.
Lights swing with celestial rhythm.
The sighs and creaks in the timbered beams
Grey the atmosphere with mottled scorn.
Tossed pejoratives will never hold
As the whiteness calms the afterwards back,
Closes down the shivering glazed glen
To bristle wetness carved in stilted dusk.