Grey Days Poem by James Smith

In endless days where grey clouds hang down
To a landscape of mud and flooded ruts
As if earth and sky were joined at the waist
Minutes tick by, grey and brown, grey and brown.

Each hour records an arid emptiness
We sit, lost in our hard chairs, unmoving
Till discomfort changes our position
And soon, as if undisturbed, stillness resumes.

Is this suspense of animation needed
To fuel the engine of achievement?
Is this place sandwiched between earth and sky
The marshalling yard of our activity?