Grey Days

Oh grey winter day, you rascal, you pest,
With skies like old socks, unwashed and unpressed.
Your light is so dim, so pale and so weak,
It’s like you’re winking but can’t close the leak.

The trees stand there naked, all twiggy and cold,
They shake in the breeze like they’re a bit too old.
And the sun? Oh, that scoundrel, it hides like a thief,
Leaving us with a ceiling of eternal grief.

I shuffle along, wrapped up like a burrito,
In scarves and in layers, my very own credo.
My breath makes small ghosts that dance and then vanish,
A moment of magic the grey cannot banish.

The puddles are mirrors, all slick and sly,
Reflecting the dull of one tired sky.
Yet still, there’s a charm in your monochrome spell,
A cozy enchantment I know all too well.

Because grey days like you, with your moody demeanor,
Make tea taste much better, and blankets much keener.
You’re the villain who teaches the hero to savour,
The bright days that follow, the moments of flavour.

So, here’s to you, grey day, you poet, you scamp,
With your cold little toes and your air of damp.
I’ll grumble and sigh, but I’ll secretly cheer,
For grey days make brighter ones all the more dear.