As grey as every time that it's been grey before.
The river path is oozy mud
And here and there a pile of shit
Left by some poor dog whose diet
Turns its faeces pale taupe
Catches the eye.
Outside it is the middle of the day
As middle of the day as You and Yours on Radio Four.
But it's Stockhausen on three. I could
Tune in and embrace 'the new' and sit
Eyes closed, listening. But quiet:
Ticking clock, hissing gas, snoring dog, encourage hope,
Until I suddenly think of a caught eye,
And caught by excrement, at that, left on display,
By a dog. It's odd how words bore,
In both senses. I should
Not know the word taupe, could not pin a colour to it,
If it were not used to describe dull sweaters. No riot,
Just stone or beige, etiolated, desiccated, fraying old rope.
Traffic passes by
In little groups, all going the same way,
Because men are mending the kerb. The floor
Is shining, washed with undiluted bleach, the good
Bugs are all dead along with the bad, all took the same hit,
I wonder if slate gets thrush? Shall I buy it
Cannesten, in future shall I use only mild soap?
Tomorrow will there be patches of cottage cheese? Fumes like ghosts of the Somme dry
The eyeballs returned from the turd in imagination to stray
Over the unrelenting grey.
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