Crucible
Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.
Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishers, spreads a chorus of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.
The sea mist green of the bowl’s bottom is a dark throat of SKY crossed by quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing FACES.
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
