A day to watch the mizzle ‘cross the bay

that masks the heathered hills in swirling grey,

and swallows the horizon in its sigh

where even hungry gulls refuse to fly,

and seek their sheltered spots to hide away.

 

Inside we wait until the gloom will pass,

watch burning turf reflecting in the glass,

and in that warm reflection reminisce,

relive those golden summers of the past,

renew the glow of memory’s caress.

 

Wrapped in that warmth there’s nothing needs be said,

no questions to be asked, no tears to shed,

for all the future’s set inside our heads,

and when the greyness clears and sunlight spreads,

already we can see the path ahead.

 

Whatever moods afflict the fickle sun,

through everything we two will move as one.