Apples and hydrants and cheeks kissed with cold
A fire is flashing, a paint stroke is bold
Red is the booth from which you can phone
Red is iconic, red is alone
A cloudless sky at noon, a cloudless sky at night
The deep, deepest sea. Ink, spilled when you write
Blue is fresh, blue is cold
Time ticks by, as blue grows old
And then blue swirled with red and a new world was here
Of magic and starfish and a dream of a seer
A birth of a colour, of berries that stain
And we call it purple.
Even so, nothing rhymes with purple.