Grey not tender

For the dverse prompt, using the line from Celia Dropkin’s poem, Sullivan County:

In the tender gray, I swim undisturbed

Grey not tender

Sky is full of clouds above the cliffs, where gulls hang in the tender grey. I swim undisturbed in water that is cold, grey, not tender. The light is cold, grey, harsh for this end of summer. The gulls don’t care and laugh as they dip and glide, masters of the wind.
These are their elements, wind and water, not mine. They embrace the soft grey, the wind that ruffles feathers and the dark swell. They dive, splash, scream, rise and flip with the wind, while I plough a ragged furrow laboriously. The water furrow becomes shingle and grey pebbles, and I plough ahead, suddenly heavier and the wind colder.
You’ll be there up at the house, reading or doing some useful job. Not looking seaward. Not looking for me. You’ll have lit the stove in the kitchen, it will glow red and comfortless.