London in Victoria.

smog
in Old England

where Autumn bares
it’s branches, and fallen leaves
perspire into soggy blankets
for the sleeping policemen in
country roads —

the buildings hide
behind the fog, and daylight wanes
so that afternoons are painted
in the colour of night.

only whispers that flee
from cold mouths can be seen
as phantoms covet for warm bodies to steal —

and I wander through the streets
lost of sight and care, allowing curdled bouts
of mist to cradle me as a child of darkness

it seems as though
there is nowhere more beautiful —
nowhere quite like
the shades of Winter.

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