My Name is Blue

My name is blue.
You might remember this,

as I am forced to swim in
oceans of discarded plastic

while oil-soaked birds
float on sickly seas

and coral turns white
with shock.

My food is poisoned
and my cries unheard.

My name is blue, and
my home was once pure.

You might think about this
some distant day.


Balaenoptera musculus.

Henry is a poet, writer and mental health essayist based in Somerset in the UK. His work has appeared previously in Dissident Voice. Read other articles by Henry.