There are clouds that hang <br />silver-grey in the air, <br />before the winter sun <br />gives its first rays <br />of a drawling day. <br /> <br />Silver-grey the Monday starts <br />and while the day’s hours <br />pass much to slowly, <br />I am summoned to the old chief <br />with his silver-grey hair. <br /> <br />One of the women clerks <br />who wants to be boss, <br />wants to push a silver knife <br />into a colleges back. <br /> <br />I leave them alone to count their silver pounds <br />and wash my hands in the bathroom, <br />with a silver ray of water that squirts out of the tap.<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/silver-10/
