There’s a white-painted wall somewhere,
Turned blue in shadow-light;
And slipping through the crooked blinds,
The pale morning glimmer
Is all the art we can afford in that desolate space;
It reminds me of the gray, dried-out Queen Anne’s lace
All curled up small, fragile flowers becoming strong –
Tough beauty that even time cannot erase.
I watch as red leaves cling desperately to wire fences,
Perfect colour in a cruel mess of black and white.
And if you look closely, you’ll see
That even rust mixed with paint
Becomes a thing of inexplicable delight.
There’s something to be said for ugliness –
It changes you;
Without it, you can never be healed.
The crumbling soul-barriers hurt, I know
But how else can we understand freedom,
If we do not see from what it is
We have been set free?
~ Ilana Reimer