Chromesthesia

Whispering evening renders tomorrow’s colours.

Spectral light, blue-shifted, echoes in cellular memory,
retreats red, elusive as the iridescence of a dream.

The bones of the ear vibrate in time with sunset;
the sound of nightfall turns the sky vivid black,
its shadows, deepening, illuminate with song.

The scales of the eyes arpeggio into silence;
how they rainbow, through rising arcs of thunder
to wind-green chaos and leaded blue-greyed cloud.

There is colour in a word, a swirling aura of voice,
laying heavy pigment on hoarse and roughened canvas;

then, dawn sparks, drum-beat yellow and rattling flame.

© BH, 2025

Sometimes we hear colour. I like the confusion, the juxtaposition. Perception is such a personal thing. We see what we see… or hear…