Even the sun will have its work cut out
Burning a hole through this murk
will be a hard task.
There is no world beyond the
Inside the garden colours are muted,
all sounds are dimmed.
There is a chill in the air,
a warning sign of things to come.
But not just yet,
The first rays of the morning sun strike
the beech tree, which lights up in gratitude.
So does my heart.
Another day's grace.