One early summer morning
I walked along a beach shrouded in fog.

Still pools of waiting water.
Strands of pustulated seaweed that lay
Comatose across corrugated sand.

Silent stones lying where they’d been
For all time it seemed.

As the foghorn boomed and echoed around,
I walked through a world of its own.
Of three metre wide immediacy.

Now I see much further.

But somehow the fog remains,
Winding its gentle, uncaring way
Between every perception,
And obscuring my poor attempts at a true view.

Grey stroking fingers of a witch who
For all my life has mocked me
With smiling eyes and lead me astray.




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