A fortnight is a long time ,
To miss the sun.
Not so much the warmth.
Nor that its absence has brought incessant rain.
It is just the insipid grey.
That drags your spirits down,
To the bottom of your muddy shoes.
Maybe tommorrow,
As I'm opening my longing eyes,
Through my window,
Will come,
That welcome blue.
Herald of the sun.
But for now,
It is a conjured daydream,
To cling to,
And keep gloom at bay.
For still,
It is grey.
No comments:
Post a Comment