Blue

Blue fell softly across the page, blue speckled with the shadow of swaying trees. Blue came softly on delicate chords, a quiet melody over the hum of day fading into night. Winter had left the trees, had left the windowpanes, had scattered into a thousand hues that now coloured the evening. Soon even the clouds would be no refuge for the season and it would be chased and chased away. But for now blue tinted the evening clouds, and the clouds donned the colour in silence. Blue fell softly on the words in my hands; blue made the black ink dance. My gaze danced over the words and my eyes were mirrors, tinged with blue. Blue fell softly on the page, on my fingers, like little pools rimmed with light. Over the heather, across the heath, the colour cloaked the distant trees like threads of silk. But blue does not last, blue does not stay; in the corners of the sky, blue was turning to grey.