Grey Clouds

Grey clouds seem to engulf me,

closing around the road I know.

I walk through them, in and out,

appearing, disappearing,

like a thought that cannot decide

whether it should remain.

The evening hangs low.

The wind carries an old song

from a distant room,

its words worn thin by time.

Rod Stewart begins to fade,

his gravel voice dissolving

into the rain.

Once, he sang as though

youth would never leave us,

as though every farewell

was only for the night.

But the years have crossed the room

without making a sound.

The record turns more slowly now.

The needle trembles

over all that we have lost.

Maggie,

are you still able to hear me?

Are you somewhere beyond these clouds,

still listening to that old refrain?

Do you remember the restless mornings,

the borrowed dreams,

the promises we never meant to keep?

I call your name into the mist,

but the mist keeps walking away.

And I walk with it,

in and out of memory,

while the song grows faint

and the grey clouds

close behind me.