Silver grey swirls soak us, blind us,

with false hopes of brightness barely

breaking through. The tantalising

threat of sun seduces, then forsakes,

as the mist’s morning fingers extend

tendrils, strangle the glimmer of day.

 

Ethereal voices murmur through the hush

in muted exchange too faint to decipher,

muffled by the stifled swoosh of wavelets

whispering across an unseen shore. Ears

strain to pick out words, shamefaced

at listening but invincible in veiled invisibility.

 

We pass the day in limbo, shuffling from task

to task masked by mizzle and fret. Wet,

chilled in the still that spills across hidden farm

and field. We will endure it, inured as we are

to this land, where the rainbow’s treasure

is not riches of gold but a wealth of green.