Distant
The morning tastes of gray. It smells of brown.
The clouds are bland the way they touch the heart;
A muffled beigeness covers all the town.
When sunrise came it sounded like the start
Of fungi growing in an autumn lawn.
The sunsets have the glory of a bloom
Of mould on rotting rinds thrown out there on
The compost heap. They have the hue of doom.
Bright raindrops are forbidden. They would be
Too clean. A fog drags duty and such stains
Along the shore. Instead of being free
The wisps of mists smell faintly of blocked drains.
..The winter days are longing for some blue
….Above and I am trapped here, contemplating you.