Blue is for uniforms.
Teenage girls reluctant in boring old sensible navy blue.
Blue to make us all look the same.
Me and Susan and Annette.
But it didn’t of course:
Short or curvy or thin or tall or a mix of these things
We simply looked ourselves in navy
No, blue is not just for uniforms.
Blue is dreary, depressing, sad.
No, blue does not have to be an apologetic tint
Like white that got in with the navy wash.
And neither do I –
I can like blue but not be uniform,
Like blue but not be indistinct.
Blue is cold.
What about peacock or turquoise or teal?
Those warm blues, sultry blues, Moroccan blues,
The colours of possibility
The open sky, the open road,
Mystery of Indian sapphires,
In them I feel sensuous, rich, warm, adventurous.
Blue is dull.
Oh but think of the wine dark blue of winter
Brightened with pink or red
The colour of cuddles by the fire
Of spicy plums and apples and blackberries
In Latin there is no proper word for blue
Caeruleus covers everything
From wine dark sea to stone washed jeans.
In blue I can feel the moods of the skies:
In October I wore fine sophisticated Delft
Blue and white, fine patterning on
a flattering summer dress
I felt grown up and pretty
Sipping my anniversary wine
in a charming side street restaurant.
This week wearing dark blue
Like the bruised dusky sky
When the clocks went back.
Oh blue. It is the colour of calm.
Perhaps. But it is the colour of water.
And water has many moods.
Under the water the feet of the calm swan
Paddle madly.
Blue is the colour of sky but
The blue can hide the coming heat
Or the coming storm.
I can look calm.
But I am not.
Underneath, I whir with possibilities.
I can wear the uniform
But I am not the uniform
I am, finally, myself.
Copyright 2016 by Paula Harmon. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission
