My blue is not that of a mariner’s hankering
for seascapes, nor the hue of rivers I follow faithfully
– rather these favour steel and teal
before the plunge into a foaming bice brine
My blue is not that mood indigo
lodging wax-like in the ear when light is dimmed
nor a melancholia that sticks betwixt ribs
sung with a breathy sax after the midnight hour
My blue is that of woodland bells
when the April cuckoo chimes out Spring
and I could cry for the brevity of its passing
Joining Grace for another Open Link Night where anything goes as long as its poetry
PoetryPix 
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