Photograph (and inspiration) courtesy of Laurie MacFayden, artist, poet, writer.



You see spectral shades,
sweeping north and south,
following the terrestrial curve,
and gathering at the western horizon,
like some shadowy twin of a sunrise.

Now there’s a colour,
coming through the cold grey fold
of poplar, dogwood, dead-fall,
riding low, silent, certain,
rinsed by the frozen bones of birch,
glazed in winter morning haze,
blued on the boreal palette.

Rising, now, from the gesso
of snow, looming,
at your mullioned window,
priming your pine room,
already painting
…painting a tone of blue
you can’t describe.

The blue that’s come to describe
you, and lead you,
changed and shadowless,
into the long night.


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