There are Greys in London, unbridled
living softish lives of melancholy
which is how they like it the most.
There are two of them, a mummy Grey
and a daddy Grey, both with ovoid heads
like you wouldn’t believe.
Which is how they manage to remain
so incognito, what with local belief
being suspended for the foreseeable.
They shop at the small American market
being American Greys apparently or at least Greys
who landed over there first in 1951 or so they think.
And this is how the Londoners
consider them; as somehow
regularly alien but not really so.
Foreign those people ‘aint they,
says the man on the Clapham Omnibus.
Not exactly from this side of the river like.
And he’s righter than he knows
and they smile behind their tabloids
wearing triangular bonnets (not tinfoil).
Off to Ascot the pair of you?
Having a little punt on the ponies?
offers a thirsty blind cab driver.
While in his mind he hears a voice
out loud in an unplaceable accent:
A free ride? So very kind.
At night, and without the human need
for illumination, they surprise unwary insects
with the speed of their tongues’ reticulation.
They consider themselves retired
their work of galaxy-roving, abducting
careful probing, all long done.
They are not like some couples
grown distant over time, occluded
into separate selves.
The Greys are the best of friends
sharing the follies and madness
of dementia’s descent.
They search across the internet for news
of other friends still out, they buy day old bread
which helps to make their pensions last.
They have decided they will both die here
perhaps not precisely in Finsbury Park itself
but certainly within the Greater London area.
Although the idea of a bungalow
called Hersandmine somewhere down
on the cheaper end of the Sussex coast appeals.
In the afternoons with the television on
they often nap entwined, dreaming
of nebulae they will never now see again.
There are Greys in London amongst us
but they can teach us nothing more
than of the love we already hold.