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LIKE a blanket tossed
over the world,
smothering sound,
veiling the light,
the mist lies curled,
and the glen is lost
in a sea of white.
Nothing is real –-
only a shifting,
stealthily- drifting
vapour that lies
like a scarf bound
over life's eyes;
soft as a feather
quilt on the heather,
hiding the broom,
drowning the sky.
Somewhere light spills
bubbles of gold…
Here it is cold,
still as the tomb.
Only I feel
ever close by
all the great hills
watching around
holding their breath
there in the white
silence of death. .
Mists in Glen Dochart over Ben More |
