The heavens' gates are hidden in the blue,
most tender in the beaming face of sun.
But sky in subtle ways has mimics too
and brilliant will her grief let teardrops run.
It is their name which first I seek to find:
fertility that glistens, spraying streams,
bringing relief to earth's dry desert mind.
When heat returns, it leaves in secret steams.
My second must be made with wood and skill,
young hazel, forced to bend by craftmen's hand.
Captured in the grip of Cupid's will,
it sends an arrow flying over land.
Of arches, plump or handsome, one can say
they are a frame to views and many scenes.
Unite my two to one word, as you may
and find a length of colours, blues to greens.
While others just remain or break away,
standing clearly there for every eye,
the arch I seek can fade away or stay.
It shows its lustre, sometimes, by the bye.
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Lily
