Grandfather's grey beard

Long before the dawn,

my grandfather’s

whooping cough

mingled with

the cuckoo’s song

and the prayers

of the flowing river

woke me up.

A fat stubborn fog

dances over the horizon.

It’s not that chilly yet

but I don’t want to

sleep anymore.

Every once in a while

a pristine bubble

of democracy

in the distance

would emerge

from the fog,

only to dissolve again

against the backdrop

of my grandfather’s

grey beard.