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