Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

The middle ground.

Bathing in the last of light, the warmth lay far above. The mists sink downwards to the ground in the void where mortals walk.

In the heavens above the clouds, where birds dare not beat their wings, divine spirits and forms wander in the caress of the sun’s light and heat.

And in the depths of whatever lay below, past the frost held earth which never thaws, are fires of fury more to keep what ever lurks so far beneath either warm, or scorched in their homes or punishments.

But man and beast are left to linger in the frost and mist filled dawn. And in the crisp and frozen nights, making fires of their own.

So blessed are those with the power to live far above or below for their own reasons and tidings. But so too is man blessed, for making that frozen mist of land his own warm and welcoming home.


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