Black as ink the lake extends.
As still as night it sits.
Low grey clouds obscure the sun.
Colour is reduced, greyness wins.
Its cold tentacles enfold my soul and body.
Its icy fingers enclose my form.
All that moves are the ripples from
the tears as they drip silently into the water.
Silent, expanding ripples as I sit alone on the jetty.
I was on the quay that day.
That day when the ship came in.
Ghosting over the calm sea it arrived.
A true ghost ship for no sound did it make.
No sails flapping.
No shouted orders to the crew.
A mist sweeps over the desolate moor.
A place where plants cling to the ground.
To their perception of life.
The front of the mist rolls forward.
It curls around all obstacles, filling every nook and cranny.
You cannot escape it’s presence, just try to ignore it.
Convince yourself that it does not exist.