I experienced mizzle, again, tonight.
This time, without you.
Our first mizzle draped the English town of
Dover at night. Friends’ laughs echoed in our wake.
A mizzle clouded all the air space,
As we strolled under repeating
Streetlights from B&B to seafood joint.
We arrived damp, the standard condition of
Englishness. Our second mizzle– that
Anniversary weekend in Boston
Walking to find supper uphill by
Beacon Hill brownstone and barbers.
Enforced relaxation and us time–
Our hearts compressed by childlike
Worries. Mizzle, again, tonight, without you.
A feather coldness held inside a wind.
— day 21, Poetry Month
