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.