A wisp of cigarette smoke stirs a painful memory. The speaker asks why it troubles him, then answers himself: it reminds him of carrying his sick mother downstairs early in her illness. In those moments, he would find a few long grey hairs on his coat. They felt like a quiet rebuke to his own light-heartedness—evidence of her aging and suffering he had been ignoring. He would let the hairs drift up the chimney, a small gesture of letting go, yet the memory still haunts him.
The mood is quiet, sorrowful, full of guilt and tenderness. The grey smoke becomes a ghostly echo of the mother’s grey hair, linking present and past. The speaker’s tone is subdued and reflective, full of regret. Ordinary things—smoke, hair, coat—carry the weight of loss and remorse.