Hut Words, Most Promising

The air is grey today

The air is grey today.

High air clouds itself thickly. Uniform. Unchanging. White-grey.

Mid air clings to the dark trees. Hangs there damply. Red-brown. Green-brown. Brown. Grey.

Low air wets the grass. Greying pockets with wetness. Dark green tufts. Light green drifts. Brown smudges. Grey.

Air brings her dampness, greyness and stillness and makes the morning.

And brings a coolness to my skin. A stream breaks from the wind, slips through the open window and eddies in the square space of the hut. She drapes herself over my arms, brushes my face. I breathe her in.

And the trees breathe her too and the grass. And the birds in the woods across from my window. Blue tits chit-chatting. Blackbird singing into the grey. In the grey calmness of the morning no alarm calls here. Just singing, chatting, foraging, yes and breathing the grey air.

And the cars and the lorries, on the distant Chailey road, they breathe air too.

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Photo by Jill Dimond on Unsplash

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