The seventh in the series of ‘The Dark Months’ is an exercise in observation written on one of those foggy, still, cold mornings which gives way to unearthly brightness by noon.
The Dark Months – Seven
A morning of fragile anonymity.
Fog dampened sounds and sights, softened the edges of everything, and simultaneously magnified and flattened light.
The distant rattle of a goods train sounded like a receding fight.
Amid the vagueness stands a tree; like it’s own pale ghost.
Corkscrew curled leaves drip gently; benediction for a host.
For a moment time is frozen, or maybe that’s my thoughts?