Greyness seeps from winter sky in rivulets
that slide off the rooftops, down the windowpane,
puddle in the sodden fields,
become small fast-moving creeks
in the roadside ditches.
The landscape is fog-shrouded, opaque,
a study in grisaille.*
Silvery sleek shapes are slipping in and out
at the edge of the forest,
elusive as love among the lonely-hearted:
wet winter wolves among the misty trees.
Clouds hang wetly
half-way down the mountain,
as if they have forgotten how to climb.
Grey landscape, grey skies, grey world.
I'd walk underneath those dripping trees,
turn my face up to the sky,
but you're not here.
*grisaille - a painting executed entirely in grey scale values.