which I can't adequately place anymore -
other than to suggest blue-ish- grey - maybe - certainly not brown.
Not green or hazel.
Not violet - but oh, yes, violent.
For the worldly wonder of fury and hell -
I'd suggest fire and brimstone, but that would be underestimating sulfur -
and it's acrimonious smell - so no, teal - such an ugly colour -
I associate it with his eyes, and that pseudo golf-shirt -
3 buttons at the v-neck, and soft poly-cotton -
and I wish, in some ways, that it had been cheap -
of such poor quality that the poison of agrimony could have leached into him
and worn him thin, faster, sooner -
not only so that he couldn't or wouldn't hurt me, but you either -
but he endured, and now, this damn shirt remains -
barely frayed at the cuffs or stem line along the collar -
and time and hundreds of washings have hardly faded the colour -
deep, rich teal -
so the shirt lives on, and so does he -
but I hear his mind is muddled and his ways confined
to bed or a wheelchair, but still, in moments,
he is as razor sharp as meaty hands beating bruises into skin,
or wielding a belt that buckled a silver tongue - biting into flesh -
and I can't really recall his face -
or the colour of his eyes,
but I loathe Teal -
and for all that was stolen, taken and ripped away -
I only know of his one name: father.
for: Brendan's weekend challenge @ Toads:
Choking "Approaching on Father's Day"