Poem written early this morning. Later, in Blue and blue and blue the Oracle picked up the same images and gave them a slightly different interpretation. And again, a painting by Odilon Redon illustrates it.
These long, languid days of relentless blue,
slow moving as the sluggish stream,
that flow one into another seamlessly
stitched with the hot breath of invisible night,
hurtle into oblivion,
a morass of dead moments,
molten and merging into gold,
slipping like quicksilver from the tightest grasp.
Time pours silently over the edge
with the places we never visited,
the unknown cloaked in the mists of intrigue,
the pebble dropped into the bottomless pool,
comet-rushing, the slow days that seem to drag,
dead march, strike sparks from our flying heels.