Tomorrow when you wake
You will find your garden has been taken
If you dare to venture outside
You will see no town where a town was before.
Cold-hearted fog will have gathered all about him
And clutched it all to himself. Nothing familiar
Or comforting will remain beyond your doorstep
But if the smothering silence
Laid down by the freezing mist
Should chance to unnerve you.
Because the sun, though at first hidden from view
Will be striving to beat a path through to you.
Before midday his orange face will appear
To the south, high up in the mist,
And you will feel, if not his warmth, at least the promise
Of his warmth.
Treacherous fog will have no answer to the sun’s growing power
And, turning, will flee the battleground
Leaving the sky a pure spotless blue.
Awash with sunshine.
The proud sun will chase the frozen tears from the eyes
Of your Ox Eye daisies
And he will reign gloriously over your garden.
Until, at last, wearied by his battle with the elements
He relents and slips gently down towards the edge of the world.
Then stealthy clouds will reappear,
Flattened clouds in a mackerel sky
Backlit by reflections of the fading sun’s blood.
And thus the day will end.
On Wednesday there should be a fresher feel to things
As a cold front moves in from the Atlantic.