As if ship from foreign land, mist arrived,
Grey sails, water heavy, sun vanquished,
Our island slipped into nothingness.
“Sorrow and doubt” mother called foggy
Lantern-carrying days and nights, straying
Not from foot paths nor venturing toward
Ocean clifftops, papa sheep tending, bells
Listening, for they, too, disappeared on
Ragged heights, island-occupying cold
Cloud rose up from the sea.
“Willow, close the door,” mother said, mist
Steady meadow-moving toward our crofting
Cottage, window panes water droplets
Dripping. Warmth of peat-fires, chimney
Smoke roof-lingering, kept damp darkness
From our threshold, from my quilt, pillow.
“No day to be on the water,” papa advised,
Pipe-puffing, into rocking chair collapsed,
Mist-stymied seabirds taking rocky roost,
Island life stood still until sunny breaks.
Except for me, of course, pushing through
Grey walls, water-fetching from clear-flowing
Stream, pot of steeping tea, mid-day bowl of
Stirabout, wet-woolly sheep close-gathering,
Mists brought us together. As starless night
Descended, I sought safe-solitude of my
Room, comforts of warm bed, single candle
Burning, shadows flame-flickering, I dreamt
Of sunny mornings bright and cool, sea
Breeze upon my face on Hebridean isles.
Thanks for reading on this fog-misty morning.