Blue is the breath,
blue is the earth, morning, early,
the sky a clean canvas of white and the earth; blue,
a bed of frozen blues born from dawn’s breath,
a blanket of freshly fallen slow snow,
trembling along the hairs of the land, caught
in the calm before the crunch, before the footprints
mould into mud all that is now a myriad of mystery.
There is beauty in blue,
there can be beauty in being broken,
in time being frozen, in the breath baying.
I twist and tremble between these sheets
still fresh upon these old shadows, still crisp
over this drying skin. I twist and tremble through this season
to be unsure, falling into blue, into time, time is frozen
along with all that is born in this bed,
a blanket of fallen findings; some things
I thought to be more, some things
I hoped to mean less,
like loss; less loss,
less time, less breath, more blue,
the mystery is already moulding into mud.
Blue is the breath and slow,
soft as the early morning snow
so slow, awaiting nothing more than
the affirmation of an approaching melt.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly