Lid

Fog till eight, the third morning running, then grey sat down on Prague and didn't get up.

Around two it shifted its weight, an hour of thin blue over the roofs for whoever looked up, then settled again.

Nobody calls that a good day. Washing won't dry under it.

But it's half past six, the sun down at seven past somewhere behind all that, and the street is warmer now than it was at breakfast.

Last night was open and gave the whole day's heat away; the white came up off the ground and stood in the street till eight.

This one keeps the lid on. The warm stays down here with us. In the morning, likely, you'll see to the end of the road.