The Grey Lady

He watched her walking through the night

Into the darkness of life

To the ever changing days

She glanced with the words trailing

You can’t see me

In the night all cats are grey

It’s always been that way

Did you see the sign

Walking towards

Like death walking towards that point

But going no further

Not when the gravestones scream

Injustice

For the mourned

They watch in the night

For that glimpse

As the rising mist

Touch her aura

In a strange way

We rejoice

Watching her walking through the night

Whispering

You can’t see me

In the night all cats are grey.

Reviews

[Marina]

Death as a lady in grey; unseen, unheard and unstoppable. She has certainly been very prolific with her deathly touch this past year and still she is not sated. Those gravestones will just keep screaming for all those touched and taken far too soon. Such a haunting poem, Paul, and one so true to our reality....unfortunately. i enjoyed it. 💛

[Paul Bell]

Got this vision of you sneaking out at night visiting graves. See you at midnight.

[AYVID N]

.... she moves fluidly from night to day. Unobtrusive, unseen, into the darkness of the fast changing days. A mist cloaks her and gravestones scream at her....She's got to be life itself!

[Paul Bell]

Yes, even this year is moving on fast.

[AYVID N]

Already February! Hope they open the international borders soon....

[Paul Bell]

Yeah, I need the sun, blending in with the snow here.

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

Death is a lovely cat! She pounces when you least expect her. She's had a field day all of last year, leaping, pouncing, grabbing, nabbing! Dressed in a grey hoodie. Then she rests on those gravestones, licking her whiskers...really got the cream! I love this read!

[Paul Bell]

Certainly got the cream in Britain and still slurping on it. Is it any better at yours.

[barleygirl]

Love your slightly haunted feel, along with the symbol of gray cats . . . hmmm . . . becuz your gravestones were screaming injustice, I got the idea your poem could be addressing the fact that over 80% of covid deaths are people over 65 . . . the gray ones haunting the graveyards & screaming injustice. But I also love TL's interpretation about the public obsession to blot out signs of aging (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Paul Bell]

We're like yous, they're still dropping like flies here.
The graveyards are full. This second variant is brutal, i got it mild, so not complaining, but we're only getting out of this with the vaccine.

[TL Boehm]

Haven’t been the first to review in maybe a decade. This is an enigmatic write. My logic told me it was of a haunting of sorts, physical or a memory, but either way a connection lost. A death. But the words went deeper. If we women who live out our allotted share of moments without the assistance of surgery or other enhancements we become gray, blending against the dusk, the hours before dawn, the tombstones of dreams we never pursued. Some of us revel. Some of us reconcile and this write spoke to me on that level

[Paul Bell]

I think I was making it more mysterious and haunting to remind myself where the grey lady came from. She actually came from my mum as a warning to stay out of the woods at night. Strangely enough, that made us spend more time in the woods looking for a glimpse of the grey lady. I quite like the idea of some surgeon chopping bits off me to make me younger. Though in saying that, if you've ever watched, botched, you might just be happy growing old gracefully.