The Colour Blue

A decade on
I won’t be
in the aroma
of freshly-brewed,
Arabian coffee...

the sweet, slow-jazz
the muted,
smoky-sax
of waking
on a Sunday morning,

nor in autumn
touched trees
or rippling
seas of flax...frost
embroidered weeds

nor
in backlit,
watercolour,
wintry sunsets...

but
in the remnants
of a Gershwin song,
meandering
through your mind –

or pressed
between the pages
of a book,
and a leather marker
courtesy of
the National Trust...

the tripping of piano
drifting on the wings
of a green damselfly...

the smell of jasmine,
and in the colour blue
daubed upon a canvas

or buried, deep
in the canyons
of some
or other poem.