What I think about when I think of times past – ‘Blue’ By: Zoé W.G.


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Women kneel before the stream

and rub out dust, soil stains,

they rub out long days of effort

in one choral stroke.

Blue stream, blue dresses, blue banging

of washboards, echoing

like the footsteps of a giant.


there are hours so blue

in ocean-salty minds.

There are terrible

blue-whale daydreams of downpour

and stormy isolation.

When the blue hours start to spill,

slip on your oldest nightgown,

slip on the silken words

of a lullaby. Here,

sink with me for a while.

They said ‘blue’ was of the world of the artificial.

‘Reserved for the unnatural’, they said.

Blue like the veins rushing

through my left arm?

The blue scattered in the air,

when a peacock sheds its coat?

To them I say,