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a reproachful mist

drenched the day in grey,

defeating the sun,

deadening all,

colour, sound,

subduing the landscape

as a cloth around the knocker

on the door of the bereaved.

 

it lingered languidly

into the afternoon

like an overnight party guest

draped extravagantly

across a three-seater sofa.

outstaying his welcome,

lounging about the living room

the day after the night before

as if expecting something more –

coffee or breakfast

or hair of the dog.

 

and the oatmeal sky ached

as if with the memory of rain

and the summer was suddenly,

irretrievably, lost.

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