MELANCHOLY

Each day follows the next, as bland, as bland,

As hooded monks from cells through cloisters shamble.

Thick grey mutes flaming hues, gains upper hand,

Quenching to blend what eyes cannot unscramble,

The skies of grey, from the grey dappled earth,

The curved horizon’s livid, pallid dearth.

All rained with ash, all mixed and all oppressing,

In half-light’s sham, with half-shade gathered in;

Sight blankly stares into the smoke, egressing

Into the gloom, tasting of dampened tin.

At once the soul seeks night, yet yearns for day,

Keen to imbibe the dark, yet scald with fire,

Pacing the room in careworn disarray.

The final ennui of dingy light, inspired

By rained down ash, the gloom of that demise,

In that grey without shape or edge or feature,

No quivering hues, nor riot color-wise,

To creeping shadows all being stretched, suppressing.

And wearied soul in sadness acquiescing.

(as published in

TRINACRIA

)