Grey
The colour grey seldom heard my praise.
It reminded me of a kind of dread,
you’d only feel with an eve’s chill.
It was there in my youth,
where I’d see it blend with dusk’s strokes.
It was never a favourite of mine.
But she looked quite pretty with a dash of white,
and amber peeked abashedly through dark curtains.
The shade was hard to rid of when short strands clung to cotton.
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Yet she muted the loud colours blurring my vision.
She blended well,
age is almost imperceivable when that’s all you see.
This time, her dread creeps,
like long, whispy tendrils that snake around your frame.
Forcing your eyes to take in the effects of her work.
Her latest conquest, you’d hardly taken heed,
and now all you want is to turn back the clock.
It’s hard to look for that gentle glow in a blue-grey sea,
a gentle wink, displaced and blurred.
Yes, the colour grey seldom heard my praise.
