Blue was his colour, he always said. Went with his ice-blue Michael Caine eyes. <br /> <br />Midnight blue velvet suit, in the seventies, their twenties. (She stroking nightly its nap as they sat on her hard two-seater sofa, until he exposed the smooth contrast of the skin beneath.) <br /> <br />His wedding suit a sky-blue linen creation. (Her parents late to the ceremony, she, tearstained at the flower-decked registry office table, hearing her mother breathe, ”Isn’t he beautiful”) <br /> <br />Cerulean and cobalt shirts in the eighties (pure cotton, hell to iron, but hell, she was still in love.) <br /> <br />Prussian blue golf shoes and an ultramarine Armani fleece in the nineties, as far as she could recall. <br /> <br />He bought her a cloud-blue Honda car to do the shopping in, just before she decided to head off into the blue. <br /> <br />In it, she struck out on a polychrome adventure, alone, drove towards the lurid sunset to look for gold at the end of her rainbow. <br /> <br />When they met again, she saw that at some point his eyes had faded to grey, along with their hair. <br /> <br />Blue was still his colour.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/growing-pains-blue/
