Gypsy blue
is not actually blue at all.
Maybe it once was blue,
but a hint of yellow crept in
like an errant ray of sun.
Not quite so bright as a canary
that would sing your blues away,
and warn you of impending danger.
Closer to a lemon,
tart and translucent slices that
pucker up your lips –
but not quite that either.
Perhaps a stick of butter,
so pale it could almost pass
as a deeper shade of white.
How easily it makes things slide:
stuck zippers;
fried eggs in the pan;
the noisy hinge that could have told me
when you left.
Remember that shawl you gave me?
True blue like my eyes,
I think you said then.
It is not that colour now.
Worn and washed by memories
to a shade of gypsy blue.
I wonder if you’re still wandering.
LMC