Prism

A thin glass triangle, quiet in its stance,
It splits the sun’s warm beam into a spectrum.
Each face a doorway, a silent, careful glance,
Where white light fractures into colour’s rhythm.

It whispers in an ancient, crystalline song,
Where violet sighs and orange rises bright.
The prism holds that fleeting, fleeting throng
Of hue, where day and night are gently light.

No glass can ever claim to hold such grace—
Its kingdom thin, yet full of wonder’s keys.
It teaches that the soul’s own, hidden face,
Can be revealed when light and art agree.

In its glassey, sharp-edged, precious domain,
A rainbow’s heart is kept, and gently rains.