Tuesday morning

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


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!