Cotswolds in the Mist


Leave me sleeping, dreaming memories of seasons long ago,
Where Cotswold cottages of golden stone trailed cobwebs made of smoke
Into the damp fog as it rolled across the Oxfordshire pre-dawn.
Our narrowboat securely moored beneath a willow, wrapped up warm,
We broke the mists that hugged the earth and moved in silence through a world
Composed of wraiths and half-sketched objects, as the broken tendrils curled
Into the space between the dark night and the daybreak. Cold blue light
Spilled out from sleepy kitchen windows, juxtaposing with the night,
And from the fields came the hoof beats, through the pungent, dew-drenched grass,
And the ghosts of horses blurred into the grey light as we passed.


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