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.