The morning brings a nothing kind of day,

can’t see the sun, and wind is just a breeze.

Up overhead, the clouds float high, mid-grey,

that says the threat of rain is but a tease.

 

No stirring of the blood with summer storms

set loose to blow the dreariness away;

a day that strikes the normalest of norms

to dull even the drabbest sort of day.

 

Why can’t there be a gale to whip the waves

and wake us from lacklustre lethargy,

or lightning bolts where nature misbehaves,

displays for us its fearsome energy.

 

But no, a mediocre morn with no extremes,

to underscore its absence from our dreams.