Grey day

Grey day

I hold nothing in my hands of this day,
no fragments of caught sun,
an early flower, bud-burst,
one or two of the fierce notes
of the thrush’s song;

the light is too dim to see
behind the quiver
of those frost-touched leaves,
rippling in the north wind,
casting no shadows.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

7 thoughts on “Grey day”

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