A Morning Fog

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The world draped

In spectral finery,

Or rubbed out?

Sparrows silenced;

A still spider in its

Dew-jewelled cobweb;

Watery headlights like

Glowing eyes, 

Cast down on

Wet tarmac trails.

A chance to 

Slip away unseen,

To hide in the

Damp folds of

Robes that cover

Concrete scars and

Iron blemishes:

The marks we make

Upon the world.

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