#grey mornings

[modeinformation]

MOODBOARD LOVE // Grey Mornings

[phoebeconrey]

There is nothing I love more than waking to the sound of rain outside my window

[hiraeth12]

Grey

Why is morning’s first colour, Grey? Do the birds know the direction in which they are flying. Does the screeching Kite know what it is looking for? Where is the morning? Why are the branches not swaying, or are they not supposed to sway at all? Are they forced by the winds to sway and infuse our grey hearts with romance and the urge to compose lyrical poetry? Abandoned, old cement sleepers along the railway track pair with the morning better. The yellow Gulmohur blooms are like the tiny daubs of a bright, cheerful, contrasting hue that an artist applies on his monochrome painting, just to make it more interesting. It might or might not have relevance. Its art after all. Maybe it adds balance, makes the composition more pleasing to the eye. What is balance? This morning; is this balanced? The shrill calls of some migratory bird, the incessant cries of a distant cuckoo and the gawks of crows, the squeaking of rusted push-cart wheels, the not so distant whirring of a motor- are these balanced?

It still is grey, much like the wall of my room.

More light hits the eye- grey light. Does the crow hopping from one window sill to the other, know, it is a house, made of the same grey cement of the railway sleeper. Does it know that people are sleeping inside, people whose bodies might be entirely oblivious to the sunrise? I am observing this one crow right in front of my window, on my neighbour’s roof. It has been hopping around since the past twenty minutes. What does he want? Doesn’t he want to fly East? Why is he looking here and there? as if he’s searching for something. Maybe when he turned, he too saw a wall - a grey wall.

[materkb]

In Thunder Weather

Kage Baker passionately loved the early summer weather of Southern California.

What she loved best were the warm, grey days – May Grey, June Gloom, July Oh-Why: whatever the idiot news people called those weeks-long periods when coastal California warms up under a deep coat of hot silver mist. Basking days, she called them – times to makes a nest in the boughs on an oak tree in her mother’s yard…

View On WordPress

[alwayscountyourblessings]

[seenecdoche]

Elegance

All that is uncared for. Left alone in the stillness in that pure silence married to the stillness of nature. A door off its hinges, shade and shadows in an empty room. Leaks for light. Raw where the tin roof rusted through. The rustle of weeds in their different kinds of air in the mornings, year after year. A pecan tree, and the house made out of mud bricks. Accurate and unexpected beauty, rattling and singing. If not to the sun, then to nothing and to no one.

Linda Gregg

[awealthofstardust]

When Soft Lights Fall

He stood with his back to her. She watched a thousand specks of purple light dance upon the curve of his shoulder before fading with the shrinking sun and wondered at how fanciful she had become.

It wasn’t until a stark, grey morning that she realised she was in love.