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.

The End

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