Autumn mist on Yorkshire moors.
Those moors are misty topped tonight
as Autumn creeps down with the fading light.
The cycle of seasons is unrelenting
for all the praying and repenting:
All the bloodshed all the hate.
All the swimming against tides of fate.
All the tortured agonising,
arguments and theorising.
Ethnic cleansing, tribe detoxing.
Politics and shadow boxing.
Brinkmanship and sanction busting.
Sly betrayal, naïve trusting.
Cloud has settled in a dale,
masking rocks with flimsy veil.
Closing a curtain on mankind.
Blissfully:
The moor is blind.
David Hazell
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