So much grey,

So much grey,

A winter wash.

No sharp contrast

To speak of,

The bright light

Of a pristine sky

Hidden behind

Heaving,

Snow laden clouds.

A wet mist

Creeps under the skin,

Softening the bones

And turning

Muscles into jelly.

No place for old men,

With little

In the way

Of independent means,

Standing alone,

All night,

In the darkness

Of an empty room.

Dirty old glass

Rattling in the window frame,

Complaining of the cold.

In conversation

With the grumbles and groans

Of crumbling walls,

And tired old tiles,

Slipping and sliding,

Falling on hard times.

For too long now,

Standing in shadow

Behind sad, drab curtains,

Stained by age and too many

Restless nights.

He can still remember

How they used to look.

When he put them up,

As she looked on,

So many years ago.

In those bright days,

When he waited for morning

With a smile,

And not a grimace

As the pain

Of remembering

Yesterday’s summer,

Steals the colour

Of the day away,

Before it even begins.