‘Red’

it said

on the plastic label

and I wondered as I set

the basket on the table

what kind of red?

And so I pondered.

 

The red of sunsets,

of robins’ breasts,

of anger

or traffic lights,

of jelly tongue twisters

or sunrises that, warning

shepherds or sailors,

in the morning

are simply red.

 

Scarlet,

hue of pomp and circumstance,

or flagrant

adultery,

of shame

or fame;

a colour with a dual nature,

Is scarlet.

 

Blood

speaks for itself

of injury or death;

of class (though maybe then it’s blue)

of ancestry,

(it may

be used in heraldry),

of diverse things like

fox hunting and the final brush

(though not the coats)

and geraniums,

does blood.

 

Crimson:

royal, yet

colour of shame.

Cheeks, stained,

may be aristocratic

but derided.

It can be literary

contrasted with white.

The very word

echoes with jewels

and depths

and night,

or gorgeous knights

caparisoned

in crimson.

 

Ruby

states gems outright

but lips too,

ready to be kissed,

and apples or plums

ripe

for the picking,

the eating,

the stealing.

It hints of larceny,

deception

and desire,

does ruby.

 

Vermilion

is just a foreign way

to say

red

and can have shades

of ruby

crimson, scarlet

or any other red

unless it’s in a paint tray.

Every meaning we assign

to each of those we attach, too,

to vermilion.

 

For a week

I watered the basket

judiciously

while the buds stayed tight

and green;

no red to be seen,

then the sun must

have reached within

and told

the petals to unfold.

They were not red at all

but deep, deep, deepest pink,

beautiful and scented

but not

(most definitely not)

red.