Bed of Satin

Some memories 
paint themselves in black
tainting the clouds
and blotting out the sun
with ink so thick 
that nothing 
penetrates

Others 
borrow their hues
from soft petals and dew,
catching rays 
in the most unexpected places;
blooming 
even on the darkest 
of mornings.

I remember a day,
laid out like treasures 
 on a bed of satin;
deep, dusty rose 
braided with antique gold 
—the same colours 
you painted on my heart
the day you first touched it
with your own. 



october 2006
© Janet Reid