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.
Iām tired & frustrated by daily grey skies & I long for them the break & Brother Sun to reappear.