Crafted not Predicted

By Sue Hunter

If pity drips like soft candlewax onto a fragile heart, and deep sighs airbrush
in tones of grey all wild imaginings
Too bright for today . . .
Then cast a net over your whispered worries
That float on naïve ears.
Issuing images of a lost generation pin
to the kitchen corkboard and cover one-by-one.
We are the grown-ups after all
Pathos . . .
Into melancholy
will morph and your clouded thoughts made spectral
if heaped too high where minds and open arms embrace.
Be the lighthouse in a stormy sea. Scaffold
– on which to climb
A peg
– where they can hang their stuff
A map
An anchor
A mast on which to nail
The colours, not to strike.
You are the mirror in which they gaze, searching for self-belief
Reflect their features in a different hue
A deeper hue, crafted not predicted
A Picasso
-– from the Rose Period
Or a Blue Ocean
waiting to be explored