The sky is the colour of well-worn bedsheets,
greyed and softened by countless washes,
a damp washing line kind of grey,
the kind that clings to the air
before a drizzle starts,
or after it ends,
and the world is still dripping.

Not the bright, hopeful white
of freshly laundered linen,
snapping in a summer breeze.
No, this is the grey of a Monday morning,
of a forgotten promise,
of a lukewarm cup of tea.
It's the grey that seeps into your bones,

It settles in your shoulders.
makes you want to pull the covers
back over your head
and pretend the day
hasn't quite begun.
But even this grey,
this damp, heavy grey,
has its own kind of beauty.

A quiet strength.
a muted dignity.
It's the colour of waiting,
of slow, steady growth,
of the earth breathing
beneath a blanket of clouds.