Tyndall's Grey

The chameleon shuddered profusely, It had never climbed to the top of a sky scraper before, The melanin refused to scatter, It could not make up its mind: To take after the blue of the sky? Or to be grey... Every morning it felt the sunshine gold, Caressing the slippery unevenness Like the first waterfall down a nascent hill, Stealthily through promenades, And shrieking ladies on the way, It reached the flies' humdrum festival On a gloomy velvet cynosure of rejection from the other world. That day, from the branch it saw the reflection of serenity, And while it slithered through coffee machine conversations, Geriatric glasses emanating dismay, Fervid love affairs, And lonely, revamped furniture It reached the zenith of monotone, Yet either of the eyes revolved unheeding cadence. The journey had been iridescent, And the Wind was colourless, So even though it swayed in harmony with Her, It didn't know what to be... And it didn't know how to sprinkle white, If mimicked the sky, And so it became grey again, Like on the trees, And every dawn.