Clouds roll over the low hills,
enshrouding the vast plantation,
crawling down into the valley,
filling it like a bowl,
until it drifts toward one 
like horror show death mist,
or like the mustard gas that sank
into the trenches,
once upon a time. 

But without the threat of death,
except for death of that view
of rolling acres of tea trees
that stretch out to the mountains.