by Ceri Marriott
Trees and fields wrapped in fog,
Floating ghosts of other worlds
Cross the road and stop and stare.
Drought-denuded silence speaks their ill,
Limbs stiff and seeming out of joint
Half glimpsed in looming shadows.
Spectres of the present and the past,
Of an ever more disastrous future,
Lost spirits in a human world.
And the fog hangs there.
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