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
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