they didn’t tell me about the grey

Bad poetry seems to be the order of the week friends (sorry).

A continuing theme of the last few years has been realising life’s indeterminacy and navigating personal disappointments – both my own and those of friends’.

At the end of my year in London I had to write a reflective essay, in which I wrote –

I think all change involves loss, and there have been times where my changing faith has felt like losing faith, especially where it has introduced a disconnect between my experience of faith and that of other people’s.”

What’s written below is an echoing of this from within the change of the past couple of months, and in the context of getting to know someone who has lost their own faith.


they didn’t tell me about the grey

the way

the black certain lines you paint as a child

drip and blur.

they didn’t tell me about the grey,

the way

the monochrome dulls as it turns to

overcast.

they didn’t tell me about how

the patterns of truth can be hard to

distinguish –

or the way grief will soften out colour and

fade out edges.

So I tell myself about the grey

the way

losing old reference points,

only means there is more than black and white,

and there is a world open to being coloured in.