Dragonfly at Nee Soon Swamp Forest: Brachydiplex sp.
Blue is the colour of sky, the heavens of infinite possibility. It is the world of jets, stars and tigers in heated passage through unremarked territory. In this space the godwit seeks her homes, sundered by unending days across peaceful seas. Over firmer lands flock her cousins – greenshank, turnstone, snipe, plover, curlew and stilt. They cast a dimmed shadow that is but a ghost of migrants past, when the air was darkened by living clouds of wings and whimbrels. Bluer is the fate of the piper who spoons her way on sands of grey. Her nests are trampled and her marshes templed by shrines to a greater god of lower hue.
Blue is the water dry and dead. So clear and clean that no light is lost to the flagellates that capture the sun and nourish fish and family on a fading chain of flesh and finnery. In seas of green runs now a greater warmth that chills and bleaches the bones of builders in aragonite. The groupers are going and nearly gone are the greatest of voyagers who sail on hulls of leather and feed the maws of yolkful hunger. Bright blue is the shine that tinges high walls of heavy matter. On reefs and rocks too bare for plunder, there is still much in store for the cyan drums of steely power.
Blue is the sparkle of bodies divine. Of dragons of gunpowder and spears of azure cool. Of peacocks and cardinals from lost and landlocked pools. It tinges feathers in faeried canopies and tiny frogs that glow and kill. In the deep cobalt of heartbreak there are pains no song can spill. It is the blood of kings and the collar of revolution. The cold aura of void and souls too vapid to recall the stir of loins that feel. Blue is the chanteuse who sings a tune that taunts and tastes of temptation. What is it that rings from the offbeats of her belt that sting so true with promises beyond hope of redemption?
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