And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,— W.B Yeats, The Second Coming
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Everything looks so different at this time,
without the yellow gold of the 9am sun.
In this murky grey light, I walk as if through a dream, against an invisible tide.
It seems to take forever.
The greens are tinged a dull blue,
the stones are all washed out and dim.
Buildings lack their sharp edges.
They blur against a hazy sky.
Huge rain clouds hang low and heavy and oppressive;
even the leaves do not stir.
On the distant horizon, a storm brews unseen.
I squirm restlessly under the relentless gaze of its watchful eye.
It barely conceals a lowering sun,
blood red, watery and about to burst.