The Gray, Grey, Shade

They said it wasn't for me, that it would be cold.

I was told about the architecture, the hills of green, the Cairns of snow, the Lochs where monsters hide and the breathtaking views some could only dream. I was mostly told about the cold.

I was told.

They said I'd come home soon, they said I couldn't handle the cold.

I was warned about the dangers of travelling alone, presents of appropriate clothing for the winters were gifted, recommendations from past experiences were shared, stories were read, mostly about the cold, but the seeds had been sewn.

I know I was told.

Sure, I was told about the cold.

The sun rarely shines, the sky cries on a daily, the fog hides the islands, the clouds are frequently angry, but there’s something you failed to define. It is cold, but it is mostly grey, and then more grey.

Almost, most genuinely every day.

Why wasn’t I told?

Why wasn't I told?

Is it because when the sun does shine for a moment it's so spectacular the grey is easy to forget? When the clouds aren't seemingly so angry the brilliant blue sky is happily drawing your attention away from regret? Is it that the past of the grey is now a lucky pot of gold, for your pictures and memories and stories to behold?

So why not the grey but the cold?

Or is there such thing at all? A shared moment, a glance, a hello, the sharing of something sweet, a piggy back of sorts, an adventure, an experience, a growing of love for travel and exploring, can you recall?

I'm glad I wasn't told.

I wasn't told, surprise surprise.

What beauty, what splendor, what emerald colours to cherish, to treasure and share, what a journey, what a home, cold and grey but then something more tender.

There is no grey in ocean blue eyes.

I confess I was told.

Always about the cold. But now warmly surrounded by your hold, this country's fold, inside this mindful housing, is forever now something uncontrolled.

The future seems less cold.

For the last time, I won’t argue, I was told.

I figured, more or less, the grey would be my demise. But anything grey is long forgotten when the real defeats the impostor, the friendly sun is renewed and through the fog it smiles, if only you open your eyes.

You are suddenly, not so cold.

Good morning world, I am ready to face the unknown grey.

I see you have beauties to share with my day. I may not have been warned, I may have been told, but together, Ocean Blues and I will meet your exploding, salty sunrise at the doorway.

You have been told.