rainy grey stormy Monday, occasional bursts of brilliant sunlight

Grey
What is the nub of such a plain grey day?
Does it have one? Does it have to have one?
If small is beautiful, is grey, is plain?
Or rather do we sense withdrawal, veiling,
a patch, a membrane, an eyelid hating light?
Does weather have some old remit to mock
the love of movement, colour, contrast –
primitives, all of us, that wilt and die
without some gorgeous dance or drizzle-dazzle.
Sit still, and take the stillness into you.
Think, if you will, about the absences –
sun, moon, stars, rain, wind, fog and snow.
Think nothing then, sweep them all away.
Look at the grey sky, houses of lead,
roads neither dark nor light, cars
neither washed nor unwashed, people
there, and there, decent, featureless,
what an ordinariness of business
the world can show, as if some level lever
had kept down art and fear and difference and love
this while, this moment, this day
so grey, so plain, so pleasing in its way!

Let’s leave the window, and write.
No need to wait for a fine blue
to break through. We must live, make do.

Edwin Morgan 

I mention that I intend to try going back to work tomorrow. Maybe I have entirely lost the senses, the ones my GP wants me to come to, or maybe I am just getting better. R is looking at me with all the stern teacher's concern he can muster.  After some discussion I agree to take the car, to not cycle through the gorgeous pre-spring forest. I pretend I don't mind and that deep down I am ever so realistic and know it's all for the better. Whatever. I am lost. But resting at home is getting tedious. I have long ago lost any bearings in this seemingly never-ending voyage in the vast ocean of chronic illness. Oh, what a shitty metaphor.