Losing the thread

Time was,
my thoughts were threads,
hanging in hanks,
carefully colour coordinated,
ready to pluck
and weave;
I could hold a dozen, two,
safely in my head
and know,
exactly,
how each fitted
in the pattern.

Now,
much as I love graffiti,
I am unravelled
by its internal usurpation
of pattern and order;
dizzied
by its dazzling chaos;
trying, desperately
to focus…

Okay…love, faith, us
remain pretty well defined…
what else?
Teal, Straw, Heliotrope, Nankeen;

Losing the thread

the blue/black sheen
of a canny crow;
the sea’s edge;
the summer sky…
a handful of fragile fragments,
a seat in which to sew…

I just need to find
something
with which
to stitch them back
together…

Of course…
Teal, Straw, Heliotrope, Nankeen...