To air-castle

Blyton meets Warhol.
Extra strong coffee, white cups,
Gleaming steel spoons,
Sepia. And air-castles.
For silent smiles and delectable introversion,
Lamp-lights and ink pens.

Oscar Wilde in Louis Armstrong,
Borubon touches purple....
...And swirls.

For post millenium kids with 1980s childhoods,
Infant eyelids half open to soft whisper,
And crisp white cotton,
Comfortably crumbling around supple brown
And morphing into muslin.
Black definition, around curious and sparkle,
Dilated to tales of pirates
And little men under mushrooms,
Of golden yellows and pickled reds,
And joyful splash and clutter.

And beside is nut-brown,
Corrupt and dimpling,
Impatiently patient
For tussle will follow this calm
Excusing lack of purpose.

And now,
Nut-browned brown,
Not swirl. But crush,
And tauten.
Again sparkle,
To shadows and lamp-light,
To laugh. Then quietly
Tuck away into soft.
Brown. Dimple.