She tumbles her moodiness
In pearl grey waves.
She knows the wind will wrinkle her surface
And disturb her peace.
She knows she will have
To wear a ghostly white haze
And fade to the color of death.
Siberian cold is coming.
This evening, in dirty grey corduroy,
She grumbles at the beach,
Sulks and pouts her complaints,
Shoving and kicking pebbles
Back on the sand.
She lashes her grumblings
Unevenly at the piers;
Casts a greenish stare
At the flannel sky,
And sighs a thousand sighs.
She thinks grey is not her color,
She looks best in sunshine and blues
She feels cold and ugly.
No one is playing today.
But she is still magnificent
In her murky green discontent
Grievances crashing
Staccato on the silent sand,
And spitting flotsam,
Like epithets,
At a careless world.
unbuttoned or undone 
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful
LikeLike
Thank you, merci, grazie. Smile
LikeLike
A grey winters day at the shore, it would seem…, and a quiet, moody scene. Nice job, Em.
Paul
LikeLike
Thank you Paul. Definitely moody. It was Spring last week, but Winter is back with a vengeance. Smile
LikeLike
She doesn’t like that gloomy cold, does she? It makes me think of winter here, where people hunch up their shoulders and grimly wait it out. Well, except for those in fluorescent clothing, sliding on sunlit snow.-) I love the way you can make me see it.
rjb
LikeLike
No, she doesn’t like the cold and grey. The Med is funny that way..a little vain I think. Not that surprising since so many people seem to want to live close to her! I am glad you were able to picture it.
LikeLike
I don’t know …wish I did emmmylgant …but I can imagine …..
LikeLike
Too cryptic…?
LikeLike