Colours

    by David Chorlton

The brightly clad process
through spaces the monsoon made; some
in shining purple, some in blue,
and some in saffron yellow that streams
from their brows
and ripples all the way
along their backs. They walk
and they ride on grumbling carts
with decorations carved into the wood
and bundles stacked
in lime green, pink, or orange
fabric. There’s burgundy
and scarlet when children run, and cerulean,
sap green and rose
rolled up in salvaged carpets.
Even the white
robes the men wear
shade to milky blue when light
catches, the way it does
when rainfall pauses, but the water
still runs through the streets
and colours
sink into it without a trace.