Grey day

God of the grade A grey day,

Your still presence is a numb absence

.

The dark stain of rain marks the bark of the solitary tree

Like a tell-tale ooze on a bleeding body, 

While her twiggy fingers, some adorned with water-droplet pearls

As a bejewelled statue lately turned from dancing youth to stone, 

Point skyward into cloud

.

An old, abandoned nest is left bereft on a high branch…

The bird has flown.

There’s utter quiet in the morning chill,

Without accustomed birdsong or the whisper of a breeze, 

A pause before the day – yet holding less of expectation

More of resignation in the waiting

.

Despite the blanket grey above I cannot fail to see

The multi-coloured change that’s all around,

Contrasting with the saturated green beneath wet feet

In life is death…  yet there is beauty in it

.

My sadness finds a home, an echo,

In the speechless, weighty, overbearing sky

And somehow solace in the garden’s autumn face –

The cycle of the seasons turning round

.

For underneath, a deeper peace is found

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About Sally Ann

True-story teller - words and pictures
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