Dear Diary ...

Dank, dark and drizzly
this November afternoon;
I break off from my scribbling
and look out my window
at the moor – thin, ribbons
of mist haphazardly rise
from a far-flung stream.

Reminds me of my half-smoked
cigarette, smouldering in an ashtray;
memory, not so hot, not these days.
Brush some wayward wisps
of grey from my eyes
and the curtain lifts
as silent as time.