Grey

Grey.
Lee.

It’s quite grey today, England. My part of it is. 
Terraced homes patiently queue, holding each other upright.
They’ve been doing such duty since Victoria ruled the world.
Those inside are blanched of the colour they were born with,
Now they consume other peoples lives on 4K 50” TVs.
More grey. In 4k.
I take the secluded alleyway that leads to…anywhere but where I should be.
I can’t bear to meet folk; my mood and its colours have been rinsed to grey.
In its gullet are discarded sofas, fridge freezers, kids prams, fire damaged refuse bins,
Dog shit, human shit, empty beer cans, smashed wine bottles and graffiti.
The graffiti, sprayed in white paint on red brick by some Instagram life coach reads:
“This is as good as it gets.”
At the exit of the alley, I sky watch, then observe the street.
A scattering of people window shop the businesses still open;
Few enter. They just look with want at things they can’t afford.
Amidst the clouds, the rain and the grey, 
A moment of colour from above and not a rainbow.
Seagulls visit, dive bombing like Stukas, unsuspecting outsiders,
Craving their freshly bought fish and chips.
Strange really, as I’m so far from the sea.
So far out, far from home;
Gulls and I alike.