Tumultuous clouds of darkened grey bring rain,
Bring rain on a day that’s grey as grey.
Not white nor black, but in between;
a sheen of cream or pastel grey.
Grey is space or the face of London’s worker ants,
Not the last romance before sunset.
Grey is no colour. And every colour.
Settling dust on fireplaces,
hollow faces looking in as steaming windows cloud
the dim light in forgotten houses.
Layers of skin and space matter and cotton dust and air dust and dust.
Imprinted on the soul as cinders burn and crackle in the dead of night
when grey’s no longer grey, but deeper.
When grey becomes a patchwork of mist on hooded eyes
and nothing’s left but sleep.
As grey become dreams and dreams become grey.
And morning dust rises with the sun and birds’ whispers.
The whispers bring the mist of morning,
with the dew that sparkles grey.
Sparkling grey glittering on windows,
on grass, on leaves.
Grey as diamonds waiting in hushed secret to be found.
Bright and secret.
And shining and secret.