Today is a day for writing.
The leaves all wet, the trees
a hundred different types surround
disappearing into an ever thickening mist.
Those near, tall, climbing ever upwards
to a sky of grey, dripping damp
then fading into a far nothingness
and the hills you know behind them.
The birds are quiet on a day as this
Yesterday full of sunshine,
they laughed, chattered, a thousand songs
you believe of joy and happiness
Today, in the mist, a few short calls,
Most are quiet.
A walk today is a different pleasure,
little to see, but a day with a deep deep soul
down the path, through the sky-climbing trees,
enveloped in a cool damp greenness,
closed in your own small world.
Out at the cliff’s edge,
high and spectacular still
The valley is buried, the hills the other side,
no longer there. The sun far gone
It is a world primeval,
engraving itself on you.
You welcome this return to yourself,
But deep within are very glad,
No longer is all primitive man
Today should books, a fire,
a desk to write.