FOG IN THE MORNING

No fog this morning, except the fog of remembrance
when I look out of the window. The paddock is peaceful,
only the birds and the odd small dog racing wildly
across the grass. No sheep and no goats but the beauty
of it all remains. The white May blossom thick on the trees,
the crabby, bad-tempered crows threatening everyone but
we can cope because any day now the swallows will be back.

FOG IN THE MORNING

More fog.
In the paddock,
Sheep, like ghosts,
Drifting up and down
The grass.

This could be yesterday
When we were all young
Together.

The early bus pulling up
At the Pit.
The sound of boots
On the half-hidden
Pavement,
In time for the early shift.

The rest of us asleep
Until the fog clears.
The sheep
Shaking it off their backs.

The lights of the Pit
Floating it
Clean away.

        © 2020 Gwen Grant