By Virginia Woolf Produced by Morningshort.com
GREEN THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards.
The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green.
The feathers of parakeets their harsh cries sharp blades
of palm trees green too; green needles glittering in the sun
green needles glittering in the sun.
But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover a
the camels lurch through them;
the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them;
weeds clog them;
here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over;
at night the stars are set there unbroken.
Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mant
No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky.
It's night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green's out.
BLUE The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface
and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water,
which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of
Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide.
Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings,
heavy with water, and the blue closes over him
dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes.
hrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse
shedding dry blue scales.
Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach.
Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat.
A wave rolls beneath the blue bells.
But the cathedral's different
cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.
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