Stones (in the ground)

Together, they are orange

It is not the same orange as one might call the fruit

But it is an orange still

The orange is the impression one gets when one looks at them

Looks at them as a whole

It is the image they want you to see.

But stop.  Stare a while.  And see.

Among the sea of orange,

One sees specks of greens.

And then reds.

And then blues.

Until one realises that the orange is not the colour of all

It is not even the colour of most.

Each and every stone in the ground

In the carpet that soaks up the rain

Each has its own colour.

They are not orange.

It is simply the colour that binds them.