Blue, Green, Red and Purple: Roots
A thought, deep inside someone’s head in the darkness of some night, inchoate, slowly forming words…
Betty Collins’s poem is about beginnings.
The rain stops,
leaving the windows dappled, rippled,
still for awhile; shining perhaps:
then one droplet trembles
and starts to glide erratically down the pane –
and as it goes, it brushes another, so gently,
and another,
until there is a trickle, a runnel hastening to join the river
in a mad and forceful rush to the sea.
It is as though
a small thought
starts in the darkness of some night
deep inside someone’s head:
at first inchoate,
then slowly forming words,
it gathers into sentences,
and meanings,
then springs from one mind to another
until a great and powerful stream is moving across the land.
