All is grey but the trees,

All is grey but the trees,

They sway

Against a plain backdrop

Lacking depth

Flattened, backs to the wall

As if trying to become

Invisible

Shying away

From the rain

Their colours have run

Washed clean out

Raindrops on windows

Have stolen

The richness of variegation

Leaving only a uniformity

Of vegetation

Dark surly looking

Sycamore

Scrape against the walls of

A closed in

Claustrophobic landscape

Looking for a way out

Beech trees limber up

For a test of stamina

Heavily pregnant with leaf

Weighted in water

Bearing the strain

As colours drain

Into a soft mulch

Sodden and full

Of sorrow

For the passing of summer

There is only this

Narrowed confine

The grey has dropped

Fully down

A solid curtain

A drab blanket

Giving little comfort

It hides so much

Within its folds

And leaves too much

To an imagination

Teetering

On a shallow verge

Of stimulation