WHAT COLOUR IS THE WIND

WHAT COLOUR IS THE WIND

What colour is the wind,
That brushes past my face?
Does it borrow shades of blue,
From every distant place?

Is it green among the trees,
Or golden in the sun?
Does it change its coloured coat,
Each time the day is done?

Perhaps it’s painted purple,
When evening starts to fall,
Or crimson as the autumn leaves,
Come dancing at its call.

Maybe wind has colours,
That human eyes can’t see,
A thousand secret shades,
That wander wild and free.

It might be black in sorrow,
Then yellow when we smile,
It may turn pink with laughter,
And stay there for a while.

Perhaps it steals our colours,
As gently as it blows,
Taking little pieces,
Wherever that it goes.

So what colour is the wind?
I think it’s every hue,
For every soul that feels it,
Will see a different view.

And when it blows around me,
No colour stays the same,
The wind becomes my canvas,
And sets imagination free