Monday, 5 April 2010

in good hands

mists cuddle the house
gently falling, stopping
to peek through the windows
sometimes resting as a droplet
sometimes curling and billowing
with each zephyr
languidly fighting the sunrays
that turn all to dust

inside the radio crackles
daydreamless stuff really
I wonder if i should make
another cup of tea
or start something new
awakening the embers
with a puff of oxygen
and some new found enthusiasm

but the mists return
with a vengeance
of their own
hypnotizing through the leadlight
cracks meandering as if the voids
were a rivulet
taking all my ambitions