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Gray of plaster, gray of bricks.
Gray of weathered barns and sticks.
Gray of old buckets left by the door.
Gray of old flooring scuffed and worn.
Gray that's warm and soft like a cat,
Gray of storm clouds with rain at their back.
Gray of fog banks as they roll to the sea,
Gray fish scales that fisherman free.
Gray of the world when the sun is hidden.
Gray of twilight when no light is given.
Gray of iron, silver and dread
Gray of tombstones guarding the dead,
Gray of decay, bones into clay
Gray dusty corners, spider strands,
Gray of tombs as lifeless they stand.
Gray of mirror's in dimly lit rooms,
Gray dimly reflecting another's doom,
Gray are the shadows that fall around your bed.
Gray are the wrinkles on the mummified dead.
(1973)
Tobbie WhiteBird Crowe
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