Mist
Early morning vapors emulate a lady's veil,
diaphanous, a softly shifting secrecy;
inconstant as the tide and deathly pale,
feathering the lake in fragile mystery.
Minstrels scarce can sing with proper import
of the dawning of the day in violet haze;
e'er we hear the skylark, mother nature's joyous consort,
and sunshine bathes the fields with warming rays.
First light is fully-fledged, the veil is lifting,
the surface shines, a vision sparkling bright;
'til day fades to dark, then the morn comes drifting,
and mist sprawls like a spectre from the night.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2012
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