The Silver Mist
The silver mist more lowly swims
And each green-bosomed valley dims,
And o`er the neighbouring meadow lies
Like half-seen visions by dim eyes.
Green trees look grey, bright waters black,
The lated crow has lost her track
And flies by guess her journey home:
She flops along and cannot see
Her peaceful nest on oddling tree,
The lark drops down and cannot meet
The taller black-grown clump of wheat.
The mists that rise from heat of day
Fade field and meadow all away.
John Clare (1793 - 1864)
This morning I walked into the valley, where peat-stained pools collect the downwashed rain that runs from heather covered hills. A mist dulled the sky and obscured the distant view towards the sea.
Back across the heath and down the lane. Meeting no one. Only a stonechat rising alarmed out of a gorse thicket and the crunch of flint underfoot on the forest track.
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