deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Glisten Gray

The glisten gray, the glide, the shuffling hiss  
of mist and pelting rain has not for days released    
its hold    
upon the city’s towers and its spires,.    
    
This sodden press continues to    
collapse the bridges and the roundabouts,    
the far horizons and familiar compass points,    
into a murky hushing swirl,    
a clammy chilling scold.    
     
It sheens again funereally    
this morning’s light,    
and lacquers dank and dim    
the dumb mouthed statues in the parks,    
the aging brickwork of the pavement in the empty lanes,   
the sullen taxi ranks,    
the bow backed awnings and the dripping eaves    
of waking shops,    
the lorries and their drivers aimed,    
now grumbling and grim    
with sleep still creased within their eyes,    
towards their soggy break of dawn deliveries,    
the casements and the fogging window panes    
of every structure Londoners take shelter in,    
and every hunched    
and huddled early work bound pilgrim's hatted head.    
     
Oh rain oh rain please go away, or stay    
but you, my love, come back to bed.    
I'm cold
Written by Baldwin
Published | Edited 30th Sep 2021
Author's Note
My inspiration for this was a memory of waking up with my love on a dreary morning in London.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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