It’s a thin, grey, grim day, filtered
through a relentless canopy of cloud.
Light hardly reaches the corners where
shadows linger even at noon.
I feel weathered and worn down
by the damp poultice of it.
Pushing mist to the very edge of windows
makes no difference at all.
A conspiracy of grey.
On a white sheet of paper, I find myself
writing, ‘grey’ in the bleak hope of
sloughing off its suffocating scales,
of reducing its significance
to no avail.