I'm becoming carefree, in between the pages
of magazines stuffed with bite-sized people. They create
dreams of yellow
I have come to yearn for
though I've disdained the colour
since I was six and living my own magazine moment
plastered across the sunny
French countryside.

...Yellow?
Really?

I suppose
I could be a tea-filled mug of a forty-year old
standing behind her in the picture,
arms wrapped around the cornflower linen
sun dress.
But by the time I track her down
fifteen odd years from now
By then, no doubt,
the scene will have crumpled.
Green and yellow reeds beside the shore
will be a forgotten desire, replaced
by some other
colored vision, another peak of currency
I will struggle to reach, green feet padding along
in chase.

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