The fog on the channel is soup-like;
The tall sedges and canes
Along the banks, facing off,
Show each other their highest.
The nighttime has passed like a flight,
And for an orphan’s sorrow
The early birds start to mourn.
Most heartless of all are the weeping willows—
Beneath the city wall their arrays line stiffly.
Even at dawn, into these small hours,
In a three-mile green and yellow passage,
They rank indifferently still, being treacherously silent.
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Sorry! Your poetry bugs me! I don't know.
Sandie