Some say they're black
A bad omen
Like morning will never come again

Your father pronounces it steel
Unmovable, unshakable, unyielding
As the men in your family ought to be

You say they're grey
Stuck in the middle
Never to find its way to right

But I think they're the silver
That lines the clouds after the rain
Hiding the sun away

They're the light that reflects off the moon
That takes in so little
For its own use

And sometimes
They're light and bright and blue
I just wish you could see it too