Morning Fog

I am in a shroud of mystery,
trudging over the football field,
goal posts of white and rust,
the mist is hanging heavy over.
Matted dead grass clings to boots,
summer’s greens and autumn’s golds,
watching the seagulls as they glide
in and out of the fog above me.

Ghostly houses in the near distance,
an empty easel in a third floor window.
I pass through the dying park,
a pastel purple shirted spectre,
leaves slowly start their turn,
an empty lead on a decaying bench,
a stone war memorial matches the sky.
places painted with rain in grey.

Meadow of Hiatus

Laminated within the oceans human echo,
as newborn stars explode on car bonnets
and vast microlandscapes pass under foot.
Salt collects and drips slowly from the brush,
the atmosphere thickens bearing down hard,
there’s a stagnancy within this beauty.
Everything in sight is languidly dancing,
seeds and insects pirouette in slow motion
in the golden hue of childhood nostalgia.
Lonely lost souls drifts on the breeze,
coasting through the busiest of streets,
searching for a welcoming ear to listen.
A blue haze spirals up and around the air,
as the resplendent sun trips the light fantastic,
making this pungent downfall look ethereal.
The army of vexation flounders on the grass,
as we lay in this field surrounded by deities,
nothing can trouble us in the meadow of hiatus.