The waters are grey as is the sky

A bridge, broken in the middle, awaits

the ship, seen on the horizon afar,

Like life, it looms as the eternal question,

Is bad news sailing towards, or away

from me; how should I even prepare?

Men are conspicuous by their absence,

They must be scheming, slithering, slandering,

Eking out existence in lanes and drains,

Toiling to blacken the calm greyishness.

Maybe the broken bridge is an illusion,

Perhaps no ship is visible at all,

Just two jetties jutting into the sea,

The shot is as humdrum as a postcard.

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