TRANSVERBERATION

Blue is the colour of memory,

of childhood summer skies, of the spray

of rosemary with the blue-eyed flower,

faded denim, that industrious bees

will transmute into honey.

Forget-me-nots are blue,

and in the scarlet roar of the sunset

shadows disfigure into monsters.

Winter, being an abstractionist

abhors the concrete and distinct,

hiding it beneath a meringue of snow

or in thick fog that clings like wet cotton.

It hides the blue of the sky

and makes the rosemary

feels like dead fingers brushing your skin.

Perhaps in that indistinctness

objective things may

transcend to Platonic ideal versions,

their waveforms unfolding in uncertainty.

I think of my mother and grandfather,

the double whammy,

and shiver at future winters.