Tuesday morning

Damp fog hangs
Thick
The mourning air
Clinging
Robbing all
Of sunlight’s sparkle
We drift
Forgetting smiles
Left behind
In welcome beds.

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On the wind

I blow a kiss.
Carried on the wind
You may never feel
It grace your cheek
Or warm your lips,
Touch your soul
In dark so bleak:
It will always be,
Floating on the breeze
An eternal offering.
If ever you
Should choose to feel
It will be.

The Grey

He waters baskets in pouring rain,
The street below floods just the same
And echoes there grey skies above,
A seagull swoops in lieu of dove.
No summer here, or so it seems.
I wish to wake from out this dream!
To feel the sun, warm villas fair,
Oh Aberdonian despair!