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Black and white

pictures of flowers

have no scent.

No feeling of petals,

nor thorn, or vine,

simply existing,

unable to



Dull, grey light,

another winter

morning comes,

bereft of all

comfort, or

nurturing hands,

only cold

and toil.


Like old movies

of sadly dim

and fading wars.

The days shade

vainly into night

and night accedes

to bear the day,

but only for a while.




I pick my way

across the ice.


a sinking sun

comes earlier some day.


Bide the time.

Sink sinfully

into shades of grey

and contemplate

the immolate.

The day comes soon,


the want to slow.


Fall away.

Faded days,

like petals from a rose.

Black and white,

old charcoal,

we all go back to one

faded dignity.


HG -2019

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