THE GREYING MIST OF MEMORY

 

I’d never heard the call of the green
though my eyes caress it
in a certain light
and so many walls I’ve covered
with that same colour
to curate a comfort from the cold.
I’d never heard it, till now,
till the windows stopped
keeping out that chill.
Blue, I never found blue cold,
on the contrary, I see the sky
coming down to caress the seas I’ve crossed
in a coating of calm encouragement,
even in the snow, in the moonlight,
that blue light connecting its contours
like icy jazz notes on a single saxophone
on a smoky soirée, in a time the greying mist
of memory hasn’t quite drained.
Blue never, but white; chills.
I had red walls once and, at the time,
thought them a tribute
to my, as yet unexposed, pride.
I since recall them
as something more melancholy;
a call in themselves,
but in my child’s mind
I was scarlet conquering
on Sunday afternoons
on the inside of the rain
as oldies played across the tv screen
long before I even heard the song
from the singer in blue.
Blue, songs are like…
songs are like souls catching flight,
in my mind they are shadows;
black and white blurs,
but in the air they take flight
like cormorants of colour
over those green lands
my eyes are seeing
with more interest than ever before
as I come to drink again from that case.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

14th poem for NaPoWriMo

Published by deuxiemepeau

Published poet, writer, baker and former fashion maker, with footprints in Paris, London and Amsterdam but currently back home in Dublin with sights aimed at leaving a mark on the West coast one clear fine day...

10 thoughts on “THE GREYING MIST OF MEMORY

  1. ‘like cormorants of colour’ I love that line and that image. Maybe because cormorants are black, it’s sort of lopsided and lovable.
    My mother used to paint eggs just like those. They were gorgeous. She didn’t value them much, tossed them in a bowl and if some broke, too bad.

    1. I felt like the cormorants deserved a little colour beneath their wings!
      Too bad about the broken eggs, I remember painting them too as a child,
      They were awfully delicate, I think I had more egg on my pants than paint on the shells. Was there something about sucking the actual egg out through a pin hole first before painting? My tongue does not remember that well!!

      1. Sucking or blowing, I don’t remember. They were lovely delicate things though. I never painted any, I was too in awe of my mother’s ability 🙂

  2. Lovely, the memories in grey and color, the grey mist parting. . .

    I also like “cormorants of colour,” and all the Joni lines/references.
    “I was scarlet conquering” I bet you were, at least in your mind. 🙂

    1. Well you mentioned the Joni song last week and it stuck in the head so I listened to the Hissing of the Summer Lawns album last night in the bath and suddenly there was the poem writing itself, a little less Blue and a bit more Laurel Canyon maybe!

      1. And come to think of it, I did twice as a budding fashion designer, when I was a kid, makes clothes out of the drapes in my bedroom (mother was a little shocked) so I did learn a thing or two from Miss. O Hara!!! 🤭😂😂

  3. Joni is always a good reference.
    Colors are so evocative…and they take on associations that belong just to us. We can taste them, feel them, ride the memories they bring…(K)

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