Here ashen saplings hold their ground through winding days. Lined up and down, they wink a thousand blackened eyes at shooting stars. A serried regiment of dust, immune to tears and time, defies the sun as broken streams of grey prepare for shaking hands.
A weave of clockwork dragons keeps unsteady pace. In shining days, their plucky, toothless cousins search the gaps from higher ground. Oblivious, a sound and charming wardrobe fills the space from den to din and back again.
In spring, the sneezing red and yellow lights become the sport of kings. A breezy crowd looks on as local artists draw a pitcher. Not long ago, a prince would watch the dancers sleep with hat in hand; but colour fled to landscapes made of trembling sands and left him grey.
I watch as driving sighs press winter into hard retreat. Montreal awakes to sweep away her grey and cold; but this year it is I the swept. No more will forest, dragons, kings or vanished colours haunt my days. My future is not grey, or loud, or warm, but simply
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