A Spill of Milk

A Spill of Milk

There’s a great fog here.
It fills the valley like milk
spilling into a glass.
Even when you think it’s gone,
it remains
in diluted streaks
hanging on twigs,
and wrapped in tall grasses.
There’s no ridding yourself
of the stuff. It’s grey
and sits dim on thoughts
and ambition.

And I think I hear an owl…




Remixed Found text: “Bleak House” by Charles Dickens,
and my recollections of December 1990, Godstone, Surrey



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