True Colours [sonnet]

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True colours take a while to show their stain
for at the start they rainbow-blend their hue
(contriving to conceal through sheer chicane)
though they can also quickly come to view.
This shrewd prismatic bending of the light
bedazzles those unwary of the path
which wayward rays will blithely expedite,
unconscious of the fateful aftermath.
But how can one explain this spectral scene
with random light-beams ricocheting round
the wasteland which was once a field of green
but where no soil or seed can now be found?
One must conclude that hearts are colour-blind
and men will never fathom womankind.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

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