Morning mist, by Britta Benson

Morning mist

The morning mist strides in thick and fast,

craving sly glances of my mortified soul.

My neighbours have all disappeared,

swallowed up whole along with their houses.

The world stops a few steps into my garden.

I’m set against this white grey veil,

beyond lies untold mystery and fairy folk,

protected by tiny pearls of water, hovering.

Ivy, the gymnast, is stretching, flexing tangled hooks,

a wanderer between one time and another,rooted.

Free.

Britta Benson

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