The grey settles over us,
around us, even under us.
The dawn breaks feeble,
lingers until noon,
hands over to dusk.
It seems to say:
I know I disappoint,
but the alternative is worse.

Yet I wonder: can it be true?
That to think of green,
will break the skies to thunder,
when the storm is forecast
with such certainty?

Does it not betray the heart
to settle for such blandness,
as the only viable reality
when what we yearn for
is green, and that storm
is breaking anyway?

No longer a question then:
how do we hold it back?
And worse – a betrayal
in settling now, for grey.
Rather, should we not remain human
and trust in green hills,
though they lie as yet
so far away?