Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

A misty morning.

It’s quiet in this morning time, the chill keeping most away. And in the early pale lit day, where light is seen but sun is not, only my own footsteps and the sound of cold echo upon this forest path made by centuries of steps before.

The solace that comes and goes remains there in that mist, a silence that is welcome amidst the noise beyond. It comes and goes as it would please, staying only long enough to be missed when it departs.

I seek it as I go, to be surrounded by silent grace, like holding water with a word, it answers only to itself, vanishing as it appeared in time to linger ever ‘over there’.

And so I go on chasing mist, forever out of reach.

With all about exposed to sight, and that beyond unseen, the mists will shield and harbour what it wills to keep, but only ever for a while.

A world within itself stands there, part of and exclusive from all that which is when the mist would leave. And though I am invisible to all that world around, I am never as a specter to these very eyes of mine, and the embrace of distant mists lays ever far beyond.

10 thoughts on “A misty morning.”

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