Will it never be possible
to separate you from your greyness?
Must you be always sinking backward
into your grey-brown landscapes — and trees
always in the distance, always against
a grey sky?
                Must I be always
moving counter to you? Is there no 
place
where we can be at peace together
and the motion of our drawing apart
be altogether taken up?
                I see myself
standing upon your shoulders touching
a grey, broken sky —
but you, weighted down with me,
yet gripping my ankles, — move
              laboriously on,
where it is level and undisturbed by colors.


 = Leon Branton