makes nonsense, this plaything of the senses [poem]

One of the few poems I have an actual date-of-creation for. IT doesn't have a proper title and the one it does is there merely for archiving purposes.

=*=

What's this?
slowly unfolding in this static darkness,
sweet difusion, intoxicating, a cloud, like a blanket,
falling, enveloping;
makes nonsense this plaything of the senses.

Spins nebulous yarn
from ethereal thread;
a throw,
a scarf,
all the colours of the unseen
lost between the pavement cracks,
crushed underfoot in velvet sighs.

Want to hold it in my hands
like sand, but cannot;
the sensation slipping
through my fingers.
It's the closest you can get to touching.

(c) Adam Cheshire 20/02/2007