You won't find the Monsoon Blues in the sky -
the sky - such as it is - a claustrophobic ceiling, clinging to the tops of tall bridges and buildings.
Nor will you find those Blues in the rain-swollen bodies of water -
bodies of water, murky in the absence of penetrating rays and churned with flood detritus.
Walls and billboards, painted blue, will be inflected [perhaps, infected] with gray - the gray that permeates all.
Don't look for the Monsoon Blues, they'll find you.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged Monsoon, Monsoon Season, poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
