The Mist

 

the mist

the mist came down last night, came in softly
a drowned world between here and Winter Hill

just spires and tree tops jutting out above;
archipelago in Pacific fog

grey but lustrous - has eroded edges
all the gaps are filled with mother of pearl

the middle-willow distance gone over,
lightly stippled with a softening brush

so watercolours run, bleeding into
tump-grassy nearby and all that's behind

words are becoming detached corner first
shaking free, the children are leaving home

what used to be a branch is shedding nouns
twig, leaf, acorn and bark have now all gone

borders dissolved and separation smudged
all of it replaced with a sea of this

the sun comes at last pooling rosy mist
white whips tilt and float up, slow and steady

a flock of birds drops down reattaching
returning to things, the birds are words

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