Small Poem by Seamus O' Brian

On the greyness of these days
dripping with the shadowy deficit
of the memory of warmth and light
footfalls splash the chill that drives
us hurriedly from one baleful skyward
frown to the next, the shaking of umbrellas
with the vigor reserved for the resentment
of sunlight that hides behind the small
ceiling of grey that has become my world.
And then I remember that it is not the sun
that is smaller than the clouds, but that
I am smaller than everything.