MIST
The light of morn, which bridges night and day,
or the brink to life, or death, such it seemed,
I thought, as I surveyed the scene that lay
before me. Its dimension like those dreamed
up for tellers of ghost stories, or seen
as backwash on a watercolour scene.
No sounds to say what might be held there in
the poised fingers of mist, languidly strung
as colourless bands, round the forms therein.
Grey on grey with blurred outlines - an unsung
chorus, with more levels and depths than heard
in any tune, or felt from any word.
Broad tracts of air, hung as smudges of white,
punctured by dark shapes, about which it clung,
with trailing wisps winding between. Light
and dark and shape and shadow, overhung
with a calm stillness, from which, at first glance,
nothing seemed to move - as if held in trance.
edited 'cos I found one and inserted - but want to see if there's any others - please.
