Moving out the colours

Lifted high on to shoulders
For a wan child’s winter visit;
Looking through breath
To a world of pale isolation.
Here, in a muted balaclava land
I’m reaching out to glass
Full of infinite crystalline beauty.
Lights, lights, moving out;
Colours forming wet
In the shape of my mother’s
Silent waving hand.

poem by Phil Lowe
Added by Poetry Lover
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