By Martin Jones
The gray of slate in a rainstorm,
of dry leaves on the heath,
of waking to funerals,
of thoughts lacking form.
The gray of factories abandoned, all hope gone to ground,
of shuttered stone buildings in sad railway towns.
The gray of days without sun, weeks without sleep
of slow ballads on vinyl that skip and repeat.
Smoke-gray, ash-gray, squirrel-gray.
The gray of near madness,
or of waves on a foul, pinched day.
The gray of all life going wrong,
like the gray at the end of the dark, grieving mind
like the ache that remains long after you’re gone.