Tie Dye in July
Before the looms of humankind were strung,
July had learnt the tincturing of light:
She steeped the dawn where amber thrushes sung,
Then wrung the west with mulberry at night;
The heavens, twisted in her verdant hand,
Unfurled like banners no two winds had planned.
She coaxed the rain to bruise the lilies blue,
Persuaded clover into greener vows,
And bade the scarlet poppy wander through
The sober linen of the meadow's brows;
Even the brook came home with colours caught
From secret blossoms no eye ever sought.
The butterflies wore garments yet still warm
From Nature's silent vat of bloom and breeze;
Each dragonfly rehearsed a brighter form,
As though the sunlight flowered into bees;
No hue was idle: every shade had grown
By patient covenants the roots had known.
Children, laughing, knotted cotton white
With fingers stained by happiness alone,
Believing they invented such delight—
While July smiled, content to leave unknown
That every spiral blooming on their sleeves
Had first been practised by the summer leaves.
Then evening loosed one final length of sky,
Still damp with saffron, indigo and flame;
The stars emerged where deeper pigments lie,
Each one remembering its forgotten name;
And I perceived all colour, wild and free,
Was Heaven's oldest form of memory.
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