Sky

I was in Durham over the winter break, and I spent a lot of evenings looking at the sunset and enjoying the sky change colours. I think sunsets are so beautiful and writing about colours is one of my favourite things to do. This poem started out as a simple ode to the changing colours of the sky, but a few days into having written it, the third lockdown was announced. I was already so tired of spending a month by myself, I did not have the energy to spend another one too. So the poem took a dark turn, mirroring this, but then finally I guess I saw some light at the end, which was reflected in the poem too.

 

I stood at the balcony
and watched the sky.
It was a deep cerulean that rivalled
your baby blues.
Then it became
a blistering red,
so bright, so fiery,
like lovers engaged in a passionate embrace.
It then changed to a
warm orange,
tame, malleable and soft,
I could almost wrap my arms around it.
And then it was pink,
a gentle pink. A hesitant caress
of lips against cheeks,
restrained, yet consuming.

I stood by myself and I watched
as the pink
gave way to a violet so vivid,
it reminded me of
your mother’s favourite gown,
the one she wore the last time
I saw you.
Slowly the violet
disintegrated to a pensive grey.
a grey steeped in solitude,
drenched in despair,
and mantled in melancholy.

I stood and watched
grey lose itself
to Night’s spell.
I watched as Night
reached out over the sky,
painting everything with Her
dark paints.
She smeared the sky with
black and dark greys and anguish.

But then She brought out
a white so pure, untouched by life’s ravages.
She painted a crescent moon,
stark against the black ; “Hold on a little longer,”
She said, looking right at me. 
I asked her,
“Why try?”
She laughed and flung
a smattering of white
across the sky.
And then she was gone.

I stood at the balcony all night.
Trying yet failing.

Every time
I took a step forward,
a spark of white
at the corner of my eyes
stopped me.

I’m still standing at the balcony,
and Dawn is near.
I can see Her rosy fingers,
coming closer.
Maybe I’ll wait here
for another day,

by myself,
just watching
the sky.

Image courtesy of Aoifke McGuire-France

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