Dawn broke fast the colour of grapefruit that my grandfather ate. A white needle forges through dense washed out blue, drifts twists and curls back to vapour. For a second I heard a grassy corner swelling with spring birds singing, a refracting inversion.
Great lakes of the sky chase the globe southeastward dragging in their wake the sounds of grey, a leaky tent to dampen the radiance of a Turner sky. These washed out battleships glow at their evaporating edges then submerge to leave 2 flapping egrets silhouetted in lack of light.
Only in November can days fail to dawn. Darkness guided to dusk by streetlight. Night lifts to rest just above the tallest tree. A ragged poplar’s filigree fingers anchor this ceiling of purple grey overlay. The saturated atmosphere condensing to drip from tip to top to tip to drip.
Unusual Sounds transmit through the weight of wetness. The weir of the waterway is drowned by hundreds of tyres displacing a steady tear. Too constant for the sea, except in a strangers waking thoughts.
Headlights make an alien palette when the corners of darkness permeate this day, echoed in the shriek of a heron invisible in his elemental grey.