Past maximum tilt away from our star
we have started tracking back towards
the direct attention of summer yellow.
But this morning is delirium blue, or grey
and blue, the sky sagging and the birds
are all cloud-pale and keeping quiet.
Nothing is going to waste, unripe sky,
shapeless cloud, each breath, no waste
waiting for whales or the sun to shine.
‘Blue pencils, blue noses, blue movies, laws, blue legs and stockings, the language of birds, bees and flowers as sung by longshoremen, that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold, contusion, sickness, fear; the rotten rum or gin they call blue ruin and the blue devils of its delirium . . . . . . . .’ William H Gass, On Being Blue, 1976
