Is this a ghost which I see before me,
Which prefers to taunt rather than haunt -
Haunt from an etymology that suggests
A homecoming, an inhabitant, belonging,
Sing-songing something more than sad -
Or a ghoul that wishes to run me down,
To stride fast and pass me on the road
Until I drop, breath crammed in my gullet.
My only hope is the river ribboned
Across that road, or the open ocean
On the doorstep of the horizon
At which civilisation stutters to its stop,
From which cities retreat before the sea,
Blue water rising to drive them out,
All them ghosts made by muddy deeds
By others now ghosts themselves.
Sea lifts to sky like the blue screen of death -
A sight you don’t see so much these days -
Now all these screens seem to go on forever,
Never turn off ever, refuse to take no for an answer.
Every colour under the sun in your palm
Chromatic stigmata bleeding into the world
This abhaya-mudra of the blazing-world,
A hamsa that guarantees no protection.
Indigo making new ghosts for itself;
True indigo, mood indigo, folded into
Dresses and uniforms and blue jeans.
The lap of luxury, the lapis lazuli,
Or “the stone of the sky”, this blue heaven
In which I am exiled until all things turn;
Woad replaced by indigo replaced by
Something labelled - “Vat Blue 1”?
It’s official: Pantone’s Color of the Year
Is Haint Blue. Corporations lining up to
Offer spiritual protection, shoulder-settled
Guardians whispering please-me directions,
Trying on different personalities like paint,
Like coats they shrug off after a hard day
At the office, hung on the coathooks
In the hallway of their haunted house.