There were amber trees swaying
In insistent wind that autumn,
Against the kind of indigo sky
That makes your eyes behold
All that isn't real --
Ghosts stirring in oleanders,
Scenes of primal ages,
Flesh roasting over campfires,
And ancient storytellers rising,
Painting mythic battles in thin air.
You'd swear it was all real --
The smoke and the night chill
Of indigo promises that had to be broken.
I saw you walking in a blue trenchcoat,
Hallucinating about your faithless man
On your way to an immaculate room.
And it struck me that once, I rode up
On a horse and bid you ride with me
To where the camp coals smoldered
After I told others the stories
That really happened long ago.
There were indigo promises then --
All broken now, just like
Your man's promises to you.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Actually written in December 1997.