A Wealth of Yellow
How pleasing is this strip of yellow:
the folded felt blanket on the brown corduroy couch.
On a grey day, this yellow brings light into the room
and when the sun shines
it greets the faint line of gold travelling along
the thick blue edge of the Persian rug. Around the corner
in the next room the sturdy, squat, yellow cupboard
shouts hello to the small yellow-bellied teapot
near the bananas and lemons over on the kitchen bench.
This wealth of yellow has no other purpose than to be its glorious self,
its clarity and personality is the opposite of mellow
and not the bleak yellow of sickness, jealousy or penury
as portrayed in the Spanish novel Ordesa with its yellow cover
that sits on top of the yellow Spanish dictionary in the lounge room.
In this house we are framed by a 1940s seriousness
of dark wooden floors, doors and skirting boards
that approves nonetheless of the gum grey-green,
the muted white and the avocado-lime we put on its walls.
The photos on the fridge of last year’s Pride march
flash pink and inside the fridge is a pot of yellow soup
no less – pumpkin and ginger – waiting its turn for lunch.
On the sink the dishes, recently washed, drain beneath
the ticking clock – a pragmatic black and white
bought long ago for twenty dollars and still counting the seconds.