held like breath

oh, dismal day
of color gray
or colour grey,
depending from the black and white and silver screen
of skies above,
the earth droops down
and hangs its eyes to downcast grass,
a dying gaze upon the last
of glory's spring: the greenest troops
arrayed in splendour, withering.

But looking up, the light has changed.
The shadows, gathering in strength
as brightened colour pools around,

take on a depth and sanity
that's seldom seen in clearest days,

but often springs from dismal gloom
surrounding us, in days like these.

A trick of contrast slips the keys
between the bars, and turning
wrist, and fumbling and angling,

something slides in, and something
clicks.

And in that moment, held like breath,
we're never sure which way to turn,
but whether we guess right or take what's left,

it seems,
in that held moment - carefully,
like someone's newborn baby, who
they've trusted us to hold
a bit, a lesson in what's
precious, dear and true - we feel

that we'll be free. And fear

not knowing what to do with it.

Just as I'm holding you