The mist is creeping down the ridge,
Down hills with strange names, Cuckoo Pens,
As watersnakes melt into fens
It drowns the copses, licks each hedge.
A mile away, in standing ponds
White washes at the pylons' feet
As boiling waters silk and meet,
Wet ferns wave spring, with glistening fronds.
Fog, only fog! But ash trees bend,
The hawthorns in the hedges run.
Sleepless as the sentry's gun
Black firs, like cat hairs, stand on end.
If you've any comments about this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.