I remember those gray days.
Drizzle. Mist.
Gray cloud bellies hung low,
scratched by church spires.
A cloak of damp,
damp cold.
Shoulders hunched.
Eyes on glistening pavement.
A world closing in.
Burying one in gray.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #15]
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on April 9, 2017.
