Overnight, the mist stole in like a thief
and now only innuendo and gist
dress the spartan view beyond the window.
Its gossamer threadbare veil, billowing
with the breeze, snags upon the hedge and trees,
revealing occasional brief glimpses
as from a porthole or a train passing.
All is boiled down to the question: ‘Well…?’
and, though we know that its cool dampness will
cling to our hair, our clothes, seep to our bones,
we can’t resist lacing our shoes again
to step outside and find, or lose, ourselves.
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