That part of you that held a sparrow in your hand,
the part that laughed at babies newly born,
anything with eyes like saucers full of wonderment.
As if you have already decided
that this shell you lived in has grown too small
and you are off somewhere after a struggle to be free,
with new wings, a soft smooth skin to be in once again.
Something’s missing as I hold your hand, kiss the short
white hair upon your head, listen to the life
support working its temporary magic so
we can say goodbye.
I am not feeling blue, I’m blue,
essence of the colour,
blue music, late at night
soft sonorous from a saxophone,
like ice, cold and deep as a crevasse,
blue like Edward Munch, his Scream,
Picasso’s circus creatures
at the beach, the dark sky of Vincent
on a starry night,
Blue Velvet with David Lynch,
something quite quirky,
off the centre of normal things.
I’m blue like turquoise water
in a jungle Karst topography,
cenote blue before the Mayan virgins,
all adorned, jumped to their death.
I’m blue, bruised, but still bright
as a summer sky, smoky, back in the bar
late at night with music
from a sad guitar.
© David Fraser