Untitled Poem

About the place a greying tread
Is padding slowly from our eyes,
And once it seems to grow ahead
It passes into thought's disguise.

I think a thought that can't be new -
This grey has just a different depth
And otherwise is only blue -
And keep my breath between our breadth.

The colours I had thought could last,
And also thought could last for you,
Were in this present, as if past,
And still, though grey, electric blue.