Fifty-fifty clown

The crow’s wings are magician hands

that flap and disappear

through the swirl of animal

souls and the gray marine layer

of morning.

The lake is gray too,

ribbed by a breeze

or by paddle boats,

the same each day

though changing.

The solace of anglers

on the edge of the dock:

one with a catch

that plip plops from the water

onto the deck,

goes silent, then still.

And I realize that I

have gone gray

on the insides too,

a color that illuminates


Title taken from the Cocteau Twins song, 1990.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. How true and time passes so swiftly that we don’t realize how much we have growth! I have lots of grey and was just yesterday was carefree. I am still! The words erupt like a volcano and gentle wind chimes.

    Liked by 1 person

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