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Thick fog
Like treacle
Sticks to the sides
Twisting and swirling
Soft in its stillness
Oozing from walls.
I'm not really here
There's no-one to be
I pretend I am flying
No-one can see
I'm free.
I power my way
To the top of the hill
To the gruff of the grouse
And the clank of the mill
And the scent of the moss
And the damp of the ditch
Then home,
For a nice cup of tea

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