It is the taste of the old water
that is at the bottom of the tongue
no not now this rancid season

of then, that blue of the sea
gradient brown, black in the deep
waving, like your hair in the wind
dashing the shores in passion

now long past that season

blue of the late sky, overcast
and vulnerable to the ruddy
invasion of love from all corners

it was them golden kites
flying away to distant lands,
who knows to which far terrace

it could be magnesium, potassium
we are the salt that has lost all flavour,
we are low on that one bit

of sodium hidden somewhere
frost-packed frost-bitten twice shy