New Year Fog
The garden shudders, brushed with ice,
its edges slightly blurred away
by cloud unfolding over the grass.
The sun just doesn’t want to try
to bring the day into the world,
preferring to hold its watery eye
half-way closed above the ground
where trees stand briefly still and clear
before dissolving into cold.
We are neither here nor there
but in between, our bodies lost
to fog that brings the whole world closer
by hiding half, leaving the rest
to stand exposed against the glare.
We glisten, ghosting in the mist,
then stumble blind into the year,
edgeless, eerie, cloaked in weather.
Will Snelling is a writer and musician living in London.