MISTY MORNING

Misty, grey, November morning,
Everything still,
The sky is grey,
As the rain falls,

Drip, drip, against the fence it falls,
There is not a single cloud in the sky,
Just grey, quiet, stillness,
The grass is mucky and soggy,

And yet the birds continue to sing.
Perhaps they know the secret of the day,
That the grey will lift,
And the sun will colour the day.

Margaret Fearn