“Sorry, you have to move.”
“What?”
“You don’t belong here. You’ll have to move.”
“But I was here first. You saw me walking up and down with my multitudinous strands of hair incarnadine.”
“That’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“You can’t have ‘multitudinous strands of hair incarnadine’ in a poem about waiting for a poem to pull up like a bus.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too heavy, too overwritten. Too Shakespearean. It changes the tone of the poem totally. It’s like two colors that clash.”
“But …”
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to move. I can’t fit you in.”
“Okay”, she says, shaking her multitudinous strands in a flurry of petulance, “I’ll write a poem of my own and guess what?”
“What?”
“You won’t be in it.”
And with that she gets out her notebook from her backpack and begins writing, furiously as Lady Macbeth cleansing her blood-soaked hands in the basin.
John Malone 
🚩 I guess that this is close to incarnadine.
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one more poem to go, Neil and the trilogy’s complete 🙂 bet you never saw a trilogy written in honour of ‘incarnadine’ before 🙂
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You’re probably the first person to do this. Congrats!
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thanks Neil. It comes pretty close. You don’t hear the word much these days; it seems to have fallen out of favour as a colour descriptor; such a pity; it’s such a lovely word 🙂
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Love it, John!
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thanks Mitch; I truly appreciate that 🙂
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