I woke up this morning to a weak frost,
roofs grey not white, colourless, no warmth
and barely cold. Nothing but not empty,
unwelcoming but bland, unattractive but not ugly.
A grey of portals to dead ends.
A grey of Death’s robes too old, too used, too many times washed,
like a forgotten monk left covered in dusty habit,
no bees to tend.