Hints

With my felt tipped pen as painting brush
I see the context holds the written words
And in the speckled brownness of a thrush
See the paint pot Nature wished to share

I move my hand in  rhythm to letters make
The hours of practice come to seamless ease
Yet I miss the  crimson  in  the  lake
As cerulean blues  my  eyes  appease.

Can a name  or word be colour true?
Can a hint evoke the feel of  you?
Can my words tease out the edges new?
Can   we tell when we are feeling blue?

What ever medium we  humans  may  use
We  can merely hint at  points  of view