There are clouds that hang
silver-grey in the air,
before the winter sun
gives its first rays
of a drawling day.
Silver-grey the Monday starts
and while the day’s hours
pass much to slowly,
I am summoned to the old chief
with his silver-grey hair.
One of the women clerks
who wants to be boss,
wants to push a silver knife
into a colleges back.
I leave them alone to count their silver pounds
and wash my hands in the bathroom,
with a silver ray of water that squirts out of the tap.
Gert Strydom's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Silver by Gert Strydom )
- this day, sheade rudman
- Love Always, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- Smile Not For All, Savita Tyagi
- Life with you, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- Love for OLUEBUBE, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- Broken Dreams, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- My mattress, Nassy Fesharaki
- أولوية, مالك حداد
- Finding Self, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- سأهبك غزالة, مالك حداد
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
- Heather Burns
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)