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.
2 comments:
I'm not sure I'd like to walk in a heavy mist as I would be far more quickly confused than the birds in the poem. Heather and peat are only names to me--I would love to be in your landscape for a visit.
The "country"--anywhere--although not unspoiled, is still so beautiful and interesting. Who would want to live in town!
MM - you would love it, though the Forest does get very busy with "grockles" in the summer months (holiday-makers to you).
I've walked in fog on Dartmoor and it is very disorientating - we had to return to base for fear we would be out all night. . .
DW - it sounds like you are enjoying your week off anyway and getting plenty of walking done. I have an overwhelming urge to get in the car and keep driving till I'm at your house!
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