Grey, grey the morning breaks,
pours its load of leaden rain
from hollow clouds that touch the ground.
In the grass the dead leaves lie,
brackish brown as river mud,
gilding stripped by autumn’s rain.
Embattled magpies beat the whining wind,
caparisoned for war or want,
swoop and dip against the stream.
Gulls drift low, pale shrouds
of galleons lost on oceans vast,
after some forgotten war.
Dearth of sunlight, butter-rich,
golden as a treasure trove,
a memory from childhood tales.
Nothing in this half-light pleases,
green of river weed, that only were we fishes
would we see the damp magnificence.