When the Christmas lights are stowed away

secure for the summering months ahead

we traverse the counties’ winding lanes

greasy in their dankest, darkest bed.

Verges blurred and drawn by dragging rain

tramp their liquid mud for miles ahead.

Distance is stolen by fog’s murmuration

rolling and churning, obscuring the vapid mist

painting the fields with wettest stagnation

damp scratching hedges, trees dribble and lisp.

A slow fall of rain of lazy condensation

heaven and earth’s damp conversation.

Skies lank and heavy suppressing the heart.

Fields bear the weight of the stalling of time,

Snowdrops submerged await their part.

Frosts few and bright declining to shine

Trees free of dormancy, a sickness of heart.

These are times before hope lifts our souls

short dull days, darkest of nights.

Days of grey limbo, lives on hold

Short, dull days, darkest of nights.

12 January 2022.

11:00 a.m. – 3:42 a.m. Moon 77% waxing.

Drab, dreary day. ©TMPearce 2022.