It’s like talking of a lemon light, a blue mist,
a pale moonlight. In this case a pink rain.
It was something to do with Christmas
and I was leaving the supermarket,
buzzed, bugged, by musak’s soothe and slink.
I walked out, into December,
the morning cool-ish but no frost,
and there was a rainbow over Broad Haven.
(Now Broad Haven, you must know,
six miles away, brings thoughts of summertime,
a beach, the haunt of proper holiday,
not jingle-bells, jingle-balls, on tap).
And in the rare rainbow light,
with the faintest drizzle setting in,
I caught a draught of the genuine thing,
the sky’s bright arch, light crystallising
into a glimmer of pink.
I sometimes feel we may quite well
annihilate ourselves in muzak’s flood.
Ourselves, but never the sky, the light,
the rainbow, the roseate rain.