Grey

Thin, quiet and

Slow, so-slow

That strip of ghost-near land

‘Tween fog-roll banks and

God-dark’d limits of Heaven.

Wearing grey coat, grey mood

I am disquieted observer –

Intruder perhaps –

Unable to decide whether

Light and season

Are approaching

Or leaving

The stage.

There is glory

Both in the winning

And the giving away.

For Stewart

I try watching my thoughts;

There are those that say it helps –

But memories,

Like eager, bright eyed squirrels

That leap, in happy dreams

(Where time has no relevance),

From who-knows-where

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