It is a foggy day

It is a foggy day


I fold my duvet, to see through my thick
window panes, a double routine
every day, cannot see for the thick fog
has besmeared the window panes,
I cannot but wonder that just
as man’s reason been clouded
by egoistic arrogance,
to appease my angered dismay,
the usual black bird with tiny, sharp
orange beak comes only to glide back
to its iron mound fencing the garden,
my garden at Silsoe flat,
there are many to join the clan,
small, cute, orange necked but
brown colour in body,
one or two in a pride of
monopoly over the tall trees,
the lanky trees, skyward for the showers,
they too have been purloined
of their growth by the seasonal
swift, unleaved , barren
yet not bereft of hope, swinging
as if waving upwards,
I too swing on my wheel chair,
A break with a coffee and crumpets,
desiderata, my duvet craves
manifold folds and folds.