Gray wall behind the windows
as night evaporates, gray
thick fog that startles you -
the closest trees barely emerge
from it, all else the dawn
should have revealed
still hidden. You had expected
stars after the clear dusk
but the night proper had been all
clouds and black, and now morning
not soup but something
you could have encountered
at London seventy years ago.
Smog, that's the word.
It will dissolve with the coming
hours, the landscape opening
to the gaze, but for now
the world is small and ugly,
and unlike after midnight
you have no urge to open the window.
Let it be, this dismal moment
whose ugliness is solely in the human
mind; read a moment, sleep
and wake, if you will,
to bright sunlight.
05.09.2025
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