Mist

This morning all is landscaped by mist. North, South, East and West are all mist-made also mist-lost. Faces have no features submerged eyes seek themselves. We turn this way and that listening; a radio switches itself on. A truck on a rolling sea blares a distant air-horn, both these sounds are in the mouth of the mist. No one can sense their ears this morning. We hear though, but what we hear is neither near or far. for we are in the dreaming mind of the mist, and the world has gone to a far shore - we not where.