It is a grey Sunday

Here in Penzance.

Looking out across the bay

Sea mist drapes itself

Tenaciously

Across the rolling hills.

The car parks are empty,

The gulls complain loudly

That the visitors are few,

Meaning scarce pickings

For these thieving residents.

The shops remain

Firmly closed,

Grimy windows

Hide cheap souvenirs,

Which may well sit still

Until next year.

The damp permeates

Creating a soggy, foggy

Feeling

In my brain,

I squish my way home

Where I think I shall remain.

I wait for messages

From visitors

Who may never arrive,

Or messages that will not

Make this day

Any greyer.

                                     _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn