OPAL
Once I had an opal
lost under flowers.
I’d search its iridescence
for my fortune.
Red for danger, pink for love,
gold for summer of sun,
green for growth, blue for truth,
purple a royal road.
Opals and peacocks’ tails
carry bad luck, say some.
Blind eyes that swallow light
shine invisibility on spies.
Colours of oil slicks and curdled metals
glimmer in the lining of the mind,
stumm as a purse shut tight
on secrets yearning for release.
The latch snapped, its shot silks
disperse light’s entities.
A clot of dew risen from fiery sheen
seeks the still air where it whirls
all colours clear on land, on sea,
orbiting the flower of fortune’s eye.
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