The Magic Hour, 2nd December

Fog dwells in Hoopern Valley

where Spring had fallen asleep under a wintry dusk

while on her way to the pub

dreaming of cool beer and good company

drifting off amid the cheers

for the World Cup

Fog dwells under a crescent moon

quietly, slyly hiding from view

of the blooming eye

the fatigued sun bears, bidding farewell to the clouds

to the plane and its trail of smoke

and the homeward fowls

Fog dwells over concrete roads

You in your car sighing warmly, fogging up the moon

and I, who are just outside your window

You watch people, flocking home, like walking chimneys

cheery with their friends or content in their solitude

lovingly draped in maroon tones

You roll down your window

Is it smoke or frost that prickles your nose and eyelids?

I have long moved on, leaving you with no hearth or home

you could set fire to again

do not search for me then, old love

or you will find yourself lost

in the fog that dwells around my stories