Horizon

Of all the colours I have painted  
on life's clear canvas as I pass,  
blue is best.  
   
Other colours have their place  
and have their time.  
Green grows the grain-o  
and brown puffs up the goodly loaf.  
The others have their reasons too;  
but blue is best.  
   
And when the day's doors close,  
the watchman, lit yellow by torchlight,  
like a faithful black beetle scuttles between desks,  
past mute filing cabinets and computers  
through grey shadows into dawn  
when blue is once more bright.  
   
Then, as morning's clouds show pink on blue, I am free.  
I creep out into the bay as green waves  
chop up shades and hues    
making them glitter as they burst.  
   
My little craft, white sail gleaming  
in the early golden sun  
now joins the fleets of history:  
from crude coracle  
to mighty tanker like skyscraper sideways in a swell;  
from charging trireme ballistas blazing,  
to Spanish galleon wretchedly sunk  
by canon and the sharp teeth of British coast;  
and from mighty dreadnought reaching over  
ocean's edge to kill and maim,  
to fearsome ghost ships and deep swimmers  
wrought in secular shipyards.  
   
As shore recedes into sky  
so blue of heaven meets blue of sea;  
a sphere which gently wraps me in peace,  
which rides a smooth swell of sweet solitude.  
   
The sea's edge sails serenely away, ever keeping its distance -  
except when land rises to break the harmony of blue on blue.  
Or until one bright golden day, as cool breezes slowly die down,  
and my pale sails hang loosely from their shrouds,  
I see blue sky sinking and horizon drawing near.