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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