Gert Strydom
Mist
Mist fades the sun out
and houses are blocked off
by smoky rain clouds,
but the yellow iris flowers pure
and the air smells fresh
as if I am kissed by nature.
There’s wet drops on the grass
and the two dogs
lie under the shelter
on there beds
hardly wanting to move.
A vague delight unfolds within me
while I walk through the garden
lost and locked into a own world
and see the sun almost looking
like the moon
where it hangs white and laced off.
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