Wes Clarkson

an insidious guest

a dreary grey skied winter morn
a faintly whispering fog
threw a woolen blanket
over the sounds of the day
slowly and meticulously
it curled its insubstantial fingers
’round the starkly bare branches
of last summer’s luxuriant trees
creeping and curling
like the relentless tide
it sought out any accidental crack
or chanced upon breach
as a place of repose
and protection
from the cold damp ground
brazenly entering my open doorway
as a frail relative confined to bed
it met the warm glow
of the grated fire within