Grey

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.