Yellow

Yellow ran through our hot blood

on the day that we shouted “piss off” and “get lost”

to school, and parents, and mowing the neighbour’s lawns

for fistfuls of loose change and cold glasses of orange raro.

Yellow flashed in our eyes

as we escaped towards the freedom of Manu Bay,

my fresh drivers license tucked safely into the glove box

and Fat Freddie’s Drop bursting from the tinny speakers

of Davie’s 1987 Toyota Corolla.

Yellow possessed us like a friendly demon

and took us far from home,

where the ocean stood down dusty pine tracks.

We came to rest under a pine tree by the sea and Davie said

 “it’s not that great” and I said

“neither is home”

and we both laughed our possessed laughs.

 Yellows’ shine beat down upon back and bone,

but somehow, the first burn of summer never came.

Yellow became a thing of recklessness without consequence,

a thing of carelessness without the aftermath.

It was not crimson or violent or inflamed or scalding,

It was golden and passive and lovely and glowing.

Yellow was warm sand on toes,

cold sand on sleeping bags.

It was the pages of the phonebook being torn by bold hands

with bright faces and dancing eyes.

It was a thing of moments of ecstasy without artificial stimulant

- because there was nothing artificial about yellow.

Yellow became the God of those who abandoned comfort

to doze like dogs down by the fire side.

It grew strongly in those whose eyes opened with the tides.

And somehow, we knew that those who lay safely tucked in the heat of their tight beds would never even catch a glimpse of yellow’s beauty

- and we pitied them. 

Image: concreteplayground.com.au