Winter morning in Kinglake

Walking in the morning seeping mist,

cold as winter’s creeping death but 

tinged green with luscious signs of life;

strolling above the valley blanketed 

below with trees bathing muted in

the boundless sea of cotton white 

amid the stillness of eerie first light 

in a day of drifting drizzle numbingly wet,

with curling smoke swirling hopefully

from wooden fires in silent dripping 

houses where sleepy waking humans 

greet not the yellow god’s striking 

coloured rise but the pastel grey 

of fluid ghostly clouds covering up 

the waiting nakedness of lazy day.