Thirteenth Day, April 8th

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 misadventured 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.