Rucksack Blues
 
I think it’s blue or maybe bluey grey,
the impression it makes on me,
hanging around, looking over my shoulder,
leaning with a pressure deep beyond blue
with an almost purple persistence.
I know it was empty, once, before the hands
stuffed their rubbish inside, making it mine.
It hurts as I reach back and pull it out
but when I do, the weight and its sadness
are replaced by a sky with no clouds
viewed from a sunny balcony. Up here
I see the mending of the seasons’ needles,
their stitches dusty from our journey.
It’s a dust that can cut an eye to tears
and choke words from a mouth down
into a throat, no matter how bad they taste
and yet, whatever condition we travel in,
we’re both still here, made to last although
you’ll never see the rucksack or its contents,
you’ll only see a facial expression,
I think it’s blue or maybe bluey grey.

Susan Wilson


If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them.