The Blue Hour
Everything is coated with a blue hue,
my eyes take a while to adjust to the color.
The shadows seem to dance more,
as if fairies are coming out to play.
The wind rustles trees into speech,
they creak in protest of the night,
like old grandmas complaining of
their cold and rusty bones.
The blue hour doesn’t last very long,
as if it is a blanket that hides the light.
It is a film, like sepia, that turns things
blue for just a moment, like an old picture.
The blue hour, when everything feels possible.
About the Creator
Fiona Howell
I am Fiona Howell, an Irish musician and a writer hailing from New Hampshire, US. I have two books out on Amazon: The Locked Box and Blackwood. I have three poems published in anthologies by the Peterborough Poetry Project.
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Comments (1)
This was absolutely wonderful! Loved your poem!