Mystical Mist    
 
In the stillness of the morning    
silence lingers on the leaves,    
as fog creeps among the trees    
and curls itself like greedy fingers    
around brittle branches.    
Thick and noiseless, it infiltrates,    
filling every little space,    
claiming the forest as its own.    

No sound but the crushing    
of crisp leaves underfoot,    
and the distant haunting twitter     
of a lonely, unseen bird,    
as the blanket closes in,    
sets its grip upon my shoulders    
and seems to transport me    
to another place and time.    


february 2003    
Janet Reid