Not one bird to be seen.

Not one bird to be seen.

Nothing moves at all.

This view could be a painting,

A still life,

With less than the faintest shiver

In the wind.

The sky is a flat,

Featureless gunmetal grey,

Without a single break.

In its lack of differentiation

It is reminiscent of an old pewter plate.

Pitted and worn,

Discarded by time

Dulled and weathered by exposure

To the elements.

Poor man’s silver,

A disappointment from the start

And only used as a last resort

Before it was consigned to history.

But it did have utility,

Unlike this slate grey

Moribund day,

When even the rain feels its shame

And falls in silence,

Slipping through the air

With barely a ripple,

Invisible to the naked eye,

Pencil thin and needle sharp.

Piercing,

Right through to the bone.

Washed by teeming,

Seeming endless rain,

Downcast blooms

Bleed their colour into the earth,

And with

Their sad appearance

Barely yet displayed,

Heavy heads bowed low

As if in apology

For the excessive weight of water,

Tired roots, clearly exposed,

Their grip on sodden earth almost lost,

They scream in discontent

At the endless stream

That has stolen their dream

Of an English country garden scene,

Framed like a postcard,

In the view

From my very own

Kitchen window.