by Peter Roberts

Y Niwl means the fog in Welsh Gaelic

For the Celts, my stock,
the fog made all unaware
of time.

Today the high country
in Omeo is cloaked in cloud.
Smokey greys and green.
No sharp lines. No bird song.
No way to see beyond
this valley – my old mate’s
home and hearth. He loved
the air. He is scattered here
over crags, creeks and gullies.

Will it snow? Perhaps tonight.
Perhaps tomorrow. Who would
know or care? When mists persist
we remain happily adjourned.