Clouds between showers of rain,
dull but a beautiful colour.
Dreams of calmness,
drowsiness in the shower,
surreal: an aspect of
I once read a book
with lots of fine pictures.
The book was on cats
And some were called ‘blue'.
I saw in the sky
the same shade of colour
as that in the book's illustrations.
Eyes could be this drenched with mist.
Mist of the blue, of the grey that is.
How they'd regard one,
how they'd express
the sentiments, the thoughts
behind their vision.
Eye catch my thought and hold it still
Like the gaze which unfocused lets life pass it by.
The portals to the soul, are they not, one's eyes?
I wonder where the blue-grey leads the observer...
I love being enveloped, embraced by a thought.
I lounge as the blue-grey surrounds me and sings.
It tells me great stories, it makes me write poems -
Yes, I am a poet enslaved by my topic -
And as the fair colour falls silent and dwindles,
I too grow quiet, as if it's my love.
Rising, pulsating, the current grows strong
Of swirling fog-waters, pearly, opaque.
And now I am dancing to such a wild rhythm.
The blue-grey has struck me, pervaded my core
And now it has finished, decided to leave,
part of me weeps, withers and fades.
Only memories remain in this chasm;
I'm missing the blue-grey: I didn't want it to go.