The morning fog lay heavy on the hill above my house;
the frost sat in the grasses, on the benches, and in the trees.

I noticed chestnut buds, firmly formed, shapely but not sticky;
crispy orange shopping bags caught in twisted bramble thorns;
and the muffling of ordinary noises of the day.

The sun was there, invisible, above the circle of stones:
I sniffed the cold, looked round again, and wandered off back home.