Untitled 15/12/09

Anchored down,
Everywhere
Little red lines, under everything I say.
Morning is bleak, as dark as the sea,
Winds
Bang brashly, within minus degrees.
A day, merely
Of dragging ones weight.

At 15.55
I find they sky
Peeping through buildings
Shades of pink and grey
And it elevates
From a concrete stance
To a flowing gush of silver
And as soon as it came
The wind drifts
And again, it is gone and away