6. Fog in November

Fog in November, trees have no heads,

Streams only sound, walls suddenly stop

Half-way up hills, the ghost of a man spreads

Dung on dead fields for next year's crop.

I cannot see my hand before my face,

My body does not seem to be my own,

The world becomes a far-off, foreign place,

People are strangers, houses silent, unknown.

Leonard Clark