(written one very, very early morning at work when the lighting of the predawn out the window caught my eye and called my heart)
The grey before the sun can rise
Is the deepest grey of all.
It holds the tales of quiet places
Of empty, forlorn halls.
It speaks of hospitals and their strange hours
Places where time lacks meaning.
Of empty meet rooms and banquet halls
Where people ought to be.
It seeps through cracks in windows
And crawls through gaps under doors.
When it joins with autumn wind
Change it brings to call.
You may see it through the window
As the sole swimmer splashes her forlorn rhythm
You may feel it waking up in a hotel
The taste of adventure tingling on your tongue.
The autumn’s grey is the deepest grey of all.
It feels so strange when inhaled.
It lingers in your lungs, your chest,
And brings with it a call.
The grey is a grey of transitions
Of betweens and amongs.
The grey between the dark stars of night
And the day’s glimmering golds.
Between the cotton candy blues of summer
Their warming, tender rays,
And the chilly winds of winter,
Bringing the blanketing white of snow and cheer.
It lurks in graveyards
And in your mug of hotly steaming tea.
It folds itself into bookpages,
Nesting inside your heart when your finger dare to leave.
The autumn morning grey is the deepest of them all,
It’s secrets it ne’er tell.
But calls for us to reach beyond
And see the world behind this mortal fog.