The fog has seeped over the top of the brick and crept into the camellias, curling around their stems and stroking their petals with a whisper of white mist.
It's silent, the fog seemingly sucked the sound from the sky.
The air is cool and smells like a bush walk after rainfall, wet and green and satisfying.
Turn away for a moment and when you look back, the garden is hard to see.
This fog, my dear, has snatched the rug from under your feet.
It has changed the world
Switched it for one of the parallel universes tucked up its drooping sleeve.
YOU ARE READING
Feelings of a Lonely Stranger
PoetryA bunch of words that may or may not make sense, an attempt at explaining myself
