FREE VERSE Poem: A New Language in Yellow by A.C. Blake

for when the world grows smaller

The doctor said
“peripheral field loss”—
like a pasture
gated off.

I no longer see
from the corners.
The light comes now
through a tunnel,
a white veil
settles at the edges—

the peripheral gone,
like old neighbours
moved away
without goodbye.

It’s called
Giant Cell Arteritis,
an inflammation
that can steal sight
in a single flare—

at any time,
sometimes while we sleep.
There’s not always a warning.

And yet—
I found the yellow lens,
lemon balm
for the eyes.

Clip it on—
and the world exhales.

The shimmer of paper,
the edge of a bowl,
the clink of a cup—
return
with gentler purpose.

The blur is not banished,
but bathed—
in color
that cradles
what remains.

I turn my head
more than I used to,
tilt toward sound,
toward movement.

There is a way to see
without pushing,
without pain.

Through yellow,
I do not mourn
what has narrowed.
I widen inward.

I see in other ways:
the flicker of motion,
the pull of contrast,
the story
a shadow tells
when it thinks
I’m not seeing.

I am still seeing.
Just differently.

Author’s Note:
This poem reflects my experience with peripheral vision loss from Giant Cell Arteritis—an autoimmune condition that can steal sight without warning. My loss began during a flare while driving a back road to Scotland, just after visiting the Derwent Pencil Museum in Keswick.

The yellow clip-on lenses I now wear bring unexpected clarity and comfort. This poem marks a turning point: from fear to adaptation, from loss to a new way of seeing. It’s not just about what’s gone—but what remains.