Grey

Calm, soothing, mysterious, like Windsor in the afternoon.
Solid sky, bright breeze, bleak light.
An old dog pushed aside by roadside snow.

Muttered phrases in the sweet, moist air.
Marching out into the wetness.
Umbrella open.

It is the color that fills those ancient family photo albums.
And the color of the pages in cheap paperbacks.
It is the color of the hair of an old woman, baking on a dreary day.

The faint glow that comes under the clouds,
The one that appears after a storm by the harbor.
Staining all that it touches.

It is often overlooked but absolutely everywhere.
A mediator between extremes.
The color of the very graphite used to write this.