Autohortus

The ducks and the hens
By that little hut
Were, more or less, white.

The eye that observed
Avoided gossip,
Bluebells, cockle shells.

Off into the woods,
Families who fished
Had wandered again—

An end to something—
And seen the foxes
Start to pack their bags.

The marsh behind them,
Wrapped in a blanket
Of fog, its mushroom cap,

Kept the past from sight,
While the unfanned fires
Consumed it slowly.

Words had worked so hard
To make meanings grow
On their own, but no.