Fog

Fog has enfolded the fen.
The world is bleached of colour.
Beaded webs festoon the hogweed bones
And the only sounds are the dripping leaves
The plaintive song of the robin
And the harsh churr of the wren.
I am alone in the wood
except for the dogs
who are strangely subdued.
Gnarled trees loom out of the mist
And only the bright green mosses
shine out of the gloom.

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