The blues a mystery
And greens a distant blur,
A white haze cuts the air
Climbing, spiralling
Rising and falling,
Aimlessly aiming for blue secrets.
Uncertain of its path,
Breath held tight,
Wondering at its sights,
Mind longing to soar,
Toes on tips, fingers pushed in palms.
Crisp breezes knock its course,
As birds sing taunts at their crude
visitor,
To you a pride and joy,
Rotting fruits of your labour.
Five folds to take its form,
Sleek edges, points and grooves,
One single throw to take its flight,
And though you pray
with all your might,
The plane plummets and joins you once
more,
Putrid pulp of forgotten fruit.
The blues a constant mystery
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