I cannot see more than a hundred yards ahead.
The mist is wet –
the wipers persist with its settling,
flicker-flack, flicker-flack, flicker flack.
Trees blunder from the scud,
scratch-handed portents, all deadwood.
A branched crow beads its eye at me. How
The bends in the road come out quick,
ghosts in the vapour shapes.
Ghosts and you, you, you.