Look at the colour of those drainpipes!

Blue
hot blue
oil blue
indigo blue

that blue
is so Hockney,
it’s freezing but baby I want to swim.

*

We walk through the folly
and stop to listen to bees.

No sign of their smudged yellow stripes
amongst the echium

but their hum
wobbles down to the sea

and I know they’re here,
somewhere,
sweet-talking the flowers

y gwenyn misterioso

*

We stroll through winding gardens
following fresh blue rails.
You touch wet paint, say you weren’t sure
whether to trust the warning signs: paent gwlyb!
I know, I know, it’s hard to believe,
an Italian village balancing
on the slate shoulders
of Snowdonia.

*

Pink
pastel pink
strawberry pink
sorbet pink

baby, look at the colour of those drainpipes!

*

We take turns
looking through your sunglasses
at sea water.

There are shoals of small black fish
only visible through polarised lenses,

they swarm like flies
overwhelmingly present,
I see them! I see them
shimmying in the reeds

then suddenly
vanished

y pysgod magico

*

A man scrubs the yellow facade
of the ice cream parlour,
pushes grit and rain along the walls
with a fat sponge.

We watch him in the distance,
body aching for summer.

*

Orange
yolk orange
burnt orange
setting orange

the sun lowers over the village.
It’s raining, softly,

grey orange
grey orange.