Poetry

I waited at the motored gate
when winter was bleak and grey
and the early morning fog seemed desolate
as I had not seen the sun on that day
 
The morning mist blotted out the sky
and in the distance a plover’s call did resound
but then much more lonely was I
when much further away howled a hound.
 
The features of the houses seemed to me
like spectres ever present but unknown
as if all hope was covered by the foggy canopy
with no sharp, real features being shown
 
and wet and wicked smelled the earth
if like this all days would now run by,
as if a kind of illness was present at each birth,
as if the destruction of man was nigh
 
but in the old oak tree some birds were fluttering
and crystal clear and gay
a dove did its song of love sing
and unlimited a sudden ray
 
did the fog part
as if the bird had a kind of hope and love
that did speak to the depths of the heart,
as if brightness was coming that nothing could remove.