Posted for the Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt: Observation
The January skies
are weeping
grayness
all over the valley,
sheets of gray
streaming down,
a gray mist rising up
from the meadows,
meeting in
a bowl of gray
with no horizon.
There is no sky
today,
just lowering
wetness,
falling on roofs
and cars
and horses
and steaming up
every window.
The river is swollen
to bursting,
fat with
fish and raindrops,
and lipping
the topmost bank,
almost spilling over.
There is no other color
to be seen,
except for
misty green
of the dark
dripping trees,
and a handful
of cheerful rosehips
on bare winter twigs
by the roadside.
