Grey Day Poem by Francesca Johnson

From my bed in the early quiet of the morning
I see those stark, bare branches
of the tree,
etched onto the backcloth of the dirty grey sky.

The year is dying.

Everything is empty.

The tree has no green-ness,
the sky is devoid of clouds,
the air is filled with silence.

I am alone.

Then.......
the slow chug, chug of an engine
whispers into the deadness,
growing into my ears,
and I see the young man
with the black dog
glide past in the gloom.

He is alive
and brings life back onto the cut
with his presence.

Another human being.

The day is no longer so grey....