Fog III

And then the fog came, very
cold damp air drifting, trees
dripping with the wet, sun
never showed its face at all,
day muted to white and
grey.  I gave up, fingers

of cold had wormed their way
in to chill my bones, stiff
hands, muddy tools, barrow

loads of grass sods tossed,
lawns sharp-edged.  Fighting the
hedge to replace the rotten
fence:  endurance.

Fat buds on the blossom tree -
cimson-chested bullfinches
and their dull-chested mates
feeding.

Misty highland day, drab
with fog and spring cold.
Summer is miles away.

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