I wish I had that opal lost under flowers.
I'd peer into its pareidolic iridescence
and read my fortune in colours.

Blue for truth, green for growth, purple for royal cloth,
pink for love, red for danger, gold for the light of the sun.

Opals and feathers from peacocks' tails
carry bad luck, so say some.
Those eyes that swallow light,
dumb and blind as the moon,
shine invisibility on strangers and spies.

The colours seen in oil slicks
and the curdling of metals
glimmer in the lining of the mind,
stumm as a purse shut tight
imprisoning secrets
yearning to be disgorged.
The latch unsnapped, its shot silk
disperses light's entities.

A clot of dew risen from fiery sheen
seeks the still air
where it whirls all colours clear
over land, over sea
orbiting the flower of fortune's bond.