What Flies To Grey

My joy is worn thin as are my fine clothes

I still recall their colour

like the scent of sweet days

A dove might fly to a white house

but what flies to grey and grim

Forgive me if too long I lingered 

where the swan glides and poets dream

I would awake and seek a weaver of cloth and words

and the house that remembers warm and kind

but the stones and walls 

were broken in the clamours of the earth

and the loom lies stilled