Grey

It's the kind of grey November day that washes away reflections
In the eyes of hotel porters
And the latticed wooden benches by the sea contain no travellers
Or Irish lady authors
And the girl in the raincoat walks the lanes of Brighton
With her collar turned against the wind
And hovers in the doorways of second-hand bookshops
Among the dust and fading print
And you're not the one she's thinking of
And you're not the one she really wants
Just a point along the line she's leaving from


Al Stewart