these pulsing fountains make rainbows
drift through spray, a tease of colour
and splash of dissolved jewellery,
standing, here on small gravel,
the soft scatter of random drops
a sweet relief from heat-worn air,
we half expect to find the sevenfold palate
stained into our faces, skin,
our dazed and glittering hands.
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.