When I was seventeen, the word ‘red’ meant only one thing: the colour of my girlfriend’s hair. I lie; now it comes to me – her red lipstick lips too. The thoughts we had and things we did. But of course it didn’t last and, well, things change. I changed. I was angry in my early twenties. Red mist descending and all that. Life was a struggle for a while. We drank lots and had Sunday lunches in the pub. I liked a Bloody Mary as a hangover cure. A colour for hope, anger, fear and regret. Which wins out?
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts