There is a mist that settles
close to the earth
It has no hope of surviving the sun
Whose warmth and glow
Displaces its watery blanket
Freeing the short grass
and hidden flowers
To strain with the breeze
Two feet venture across the moors
Heavily booted
Over non-matching socks
There is silence to be gained
on the plains
Suppressing the tarred brickwork
Of houses nestled together
Homes to hop-filled words
Pointing fingers
Contorted faces
Harsh ugly spewing outbursts
Love was for outsiders
And loneliness a gift within
The sky seems so close to the tips
Of your raised fingers
A gesture - a reach
For places you will leave behind