We drag our feet down monochrome
streets, blinded by persistent monotony,
unable to see the edge of the pavement
or the bricks of the walls surrounding us.
Corners are indistinct. We see only lead,
tarmac and endless concrete, nothing more.
Guided by gentle hands, faces emerge out of walls,
fences, telephone boxes and empty billboards
developing slowly, like a photographic negative,
thriving like flowers in the cracks and ignored spaces,
bending and yearning and opening to the light.
They smile down on us, ghosts of those
who never were, newly appointed guardians
of the neighbourhood for the next year.
They bring sweet saturation and strange patterns,
cover the pavements in galaxies of paint flecks
grow bright petals over doorways and windows,
so we can see the buildings that surround us,
and for a few moments we can laugh and dance,
submerged in a new flood of technicolour.