I looked across the river, towards the railway bridge a mile away. The sky seemed to emanate a special kind of beauty: the gentle beauty of heavily clouded days, with chinks of colour shining through.
Seemingly of their own accord, my eyes turned to the water, and instantly I gazed upon the wondrous reflections of the sky, especially those cheery shimmers of blue that mingled amongst the grey.
I turned away, taking in the trees: the tall gums, the petal-free Christmas bush. A flock of white cockatoos swooped, finally landing on a distant shore.
The skies are grey, but life is good.