en route

even the trees are motled greys
grey grey grey grey
a grey canvas with
grey on it
the only white
the broken lines
that skirt the slouching grey embankments
or hiccough down the center
of the asphalt

and where the grey mounds bow down
to fields, I find a hamlet in view –
steeple of no noteworthiness –
a beige grey clump of shadow
embraced by a grey coppice –
a panorama of the disordinately
ordinary – nothing to inspire
or shock – a tattered silver grey sky
above an endlessly grey green landscape
and then – pitch black – crows or ravens
a dozen or so
rise like buckshot
off an almost yellow field –
instant van gogh




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