Saturday the grey

Long jeans and naked toes;

ironing my shirt for the day.

Saturday has prepared a grey sky

for all to feel half-hearted under.

I’ve never been to the south of France

but have a message in a card from

my old Latin teacher, upon which is

inscribed “CANNES”. It’s a piece

of art by a Fife-born gentleman;

it’s most likely never been to Cannes.

The ink inside is fading with every

new sunny day. Now that it’s grey

I’ve closed it

with a paperclip borrowed from an essay.