Grey Men, Green Hills

I grew up surrounded by grey men.
My grandfather.
My father.
My uncles.
Family friends who stopped for tea when tea was a thing.
Grey men who nodded the same way, echoed each other.
Who held saucers in their left hands, cups in their right, and sipped tea in that deliberate, delicate way people sip tea in the mountains.
Grey men, thinking of things, framed by green hills.
There was a time when I wanted to be anything but a grey man, thinking of things, framed by green hills.
But I grew up, and I glimpse them everywhere now.
In Shin-Yokohama.
In Changi.
In a colleague's father.
Some greyer than others, some grey ghosts.
Never front and centre, never by the bar.
Here but there, these grey men, thinking of things, framed by green hills and blue seas.