Teal blue clouds billow beyond the glass and peacock blue stockings dangle from the shower rail and my eyes are blue, deep, somedays lost in blurs. The tulips in the glass jar are not a colour I know. Not cerise. Not purple. They are a fabricated colour like the willows I remember seeing once in a posh flower store. Dyed purple I brushed them with my fingers ever so gently and the downy fleece fell away in my hands. I left quickly.
Some gorse is bright yellow now and it catches my tired eyes in the otherwise dormant land that is shrouded in sickly yellow tufts of grass. Otherwise there is nothing at all, not even the thrill of a pheasant's plume. But I bide my time. I know it will come. The burst of life's colour, like a hesitant orgasm will creep into my senses, infuse my vision.
Doorstep needs a polish. The tile discoloured from use and Blue Bells decide to wait until March and clever Narcissi hesitate too, as if they know that once out, their demise is guaranteed. Only a matter of time. Everything in its own good time.
But I step out without the factor of time. I brave the chill, the scorn of wind and lift my face up to the teal clouds. Whipped cream clouds of teal speckle the horizon. I reach out and taste the evening. My fingers scoop up the dessert and I devour it greedily. The sky tastes of vanilla mousse and teal black chocolate with slivers of peppermint ice. A dash of Cointreau.