Robert Verdon, #420, green, reprise

dark green hall

to the metalwork room

now the stuff of dreams you always forget

behind the hallowed, hollowed stairs

with the portrait of the Strathnaver

on the first landing

which seemed old then

my parents’ brown generation

now my own

seems more decayed

dark green

government green

railway station green

green as a cemetery fence

we were heading for the stars

not slugged into submission by the unconscious sea

refined stone on a green grave

all the trees hold hands from Taiga to Amazon

fanciful as green metalwork

compulsory subject

I never liked

save for the anodised copper bowl

bright flaring blue against the green

and the strange sweet smell of cleaning rags