Recovery

Everything is grey.

Not just the sky, with its duvet heavy with sleep, blanketing the blue.

The grass is grey.

It is limp and does not even crumble underfoot for it feels nothing.

The sun is grey,

For it is but an echo of light, the morning rays through curtains stretched closed against it all.

I see grey flowers.

They do not reach for the light, but lie down and let the world walk on them.

Everything is grey.

I glimpsed red.

It is the red of life in the veins of the sun and flowers and sky covered with its blankets.

I see green

And it says go, go forth and conquer, for this duvet so like clouds is suffocating.

The sky is blue again,

The blue one bathes in in the cleanliness of pure, unadulterated sorrow.

His hair is brown

And in it I bury my hands, my lips to his, and pray he’ll keep me.

I see the world in colour again.