This short poem marked the start of a slight change in direction for me, being principally about the landscape rather than people (although it can’t help gloating on residents’ behalf about those legendary Medway fogs which block out everything, or, as the last line suggests, almost everything. . .).
There will be more localised writing in the coming months and I’ll happily share it with WW, if you’ll have me.
Fog grumbles into ready Delta,
air and lungs fill with lunar-grey clay.
Sounds of morning pulled in tight, now just ours.
Nobody out there can see we the protected few
in our vanishing woods
and on our disappearing roads,
for our smoky grease block is six feet old and a decade thick.
If you get high enough
and look hard enough
you can be blind for miles.
Look! I can see heartbreak from here.