A Grey Hand In Things

On our way to (or was it back from?) the playground in Booterstown, I spotted this near our car. Reminds me of a poem by Czeslaw Milosz:

Same glory of ordinary days and milk in a jug and crisp cherries.
And yet down below, in the very brushwood of existence, it lurks and crawls,
Recognizable by the fluttering dread of small creatures, it, implacable, steel-gray nothingness.