You plague me as I remember the rainbow.
I chased it to touch, was found and then.
Where did the sun go?
An emptiness, no light.
Fears of waking inside a coffin.
I smell a match light up.
The striker clicks it’s way across the sandpaper slowly before it dies.
I sigh but know I’m not confined.
They were old hands like a clock that’s overdue it’s service.
A grandfather clock in a digital world.
A photograph in the light of a dark void.
I can’t find you.
I throw my glasses in frustration as an old man laughs.
A Match strikes, lights and fights with the darkness to somehow find my glasses.
Old hands hold them in the darkness as a rainbow is born.
©G.P Williamson 2017