Grey

Life can be hard work

when a strange genetic quirk

sends you grey before the age of seventeen.

Instead of flowing raven locks

I was a teenage silver fox.

The youngest grey nomad our school had ever seen.

I know the girls might give a cheer

For George Clooney, or Richard Gere

in a charming, smooth, romantic comedy.

But can't you see?

You might tell me it's distinguished,

like a gentleman who's English,

but it's still fifty shades of rubbish to me.

Salt and pepper.

A speckled spray.

Even Gandalf the Grey.

So many names to hurt, malign and injure.

But whatever I've been called

I'm just grateful I'm not bald.

And I thank the Lord at least I'm not a ginger.