I don’t even know what my favourite colour is.
Or my favourite season.
Time of day, dish or meal.
I can enter the question like a roundabout
indicator on, but still driving
this exit, no this one
then compromise, ‘I like them all’
Surely there is an indication
preference
it clicks repeatedly, the dash-lamp flashes
yellow, orange or red
a warm colour
But what of coolness?
Scarves, mittens, halos of breath
ice-scraping with credit-cards
no one hand-knits something summery,
to be cherished in a season
known for taking off instead of layering
like brown gravy with mashed potatoes or biscuits
with cream gravy, flakes of black pepper
at breakfast
in that new light we all cherish
reminiscent of that curly energy-saving-bulb
light
which under shade,
reminds me of once following the shadows of clouds
across a knee-high grass hillside
but for the life of me
I can’t remember if it took place in summer
or autumn.
