Fog

 

Beneath autumn trees

so bright with orange light

crackling over lush golden grass

we are rocked in gentle pastels

colours of childhood songs

and remembered places.

 

Fog grows

from the night ground

the hush of withheld breath

and covers the house

like a gloved hand

pressed over

a screaming mouth.

 

 

 

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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