There is a kind of blue that is a celebration of soft confidence, of a deep resolve to show truth. It is the blue of the ocean waves and the sky in any season. For the kind of strength that wins, as with the blue, is flexible depending on the weather. No matter what happens it is there, reliable and strong.
It was the blue of forget-me-nots, that bright and bold yet ever so delicate burst of optimism that such tiny flowers are. For me blue is a cheery colour, one of honesty and life - for it is the colour of our oceans and skies.
The lake was the blue of glacier meltwater, pale with an iridescence not easily forgotten. Hayley stopped too, pausing just like I did, taking a few seconds to process so many hues. Back home blue is blue, it's the side of a bus, a rain jacket or, at best, an opportunistic flower growing where the sidewalk slabs have become uneven enough to trap mud.
The coat was blue like a midwinter night an hour before pitch dark; that colour you see as velvet no matter what the texture is. Yet even under my chilled fingertips the fabric was far from soft. Such a feminine cut in coarse fabric made little sense, why make something so exquisite that feels like every grandpa's old oiler jacket?