A Code of Many Colours

Time crisps about our lips
in strands of ending instants;
wrought syllables of frost
ice over every meaning;
white sapphires of the breath,
and diamonds of the air
pronounce our diaphanous cost.

And as you take off your coat,
its many colours sparkle
in the prism of your kiss;
amethysts of promises,
agates of blazing days
to light the clutching dark
that would end us: end this.

Nigel Holt

If you've any comment on this poem, Nigel Holt would be pleased to hear from you.