The sky is wrapped in woolen gray,
A hush drapes over light and day.
No golden beams, no sapphire bright,
Just drifting veils of muted white.
The wind, a whisper soft and low,
Moves through the trees with tempered woe.
Leaves shiver, grass bends, puddles gleam,
As silver skies suppress the gleam.
No shadow dances on the ground,
No warmth in the sun’s embrace is found.
Yet in this hush, the world feels wide—
A breath of calm, the storm’s soft side.
The clouds may weep, or they may stay,
A solemn guard, a cloak of gray.
Yet even now, in dim-lit air,
A hidden beauty lingers there.
Michael J McCluskey 