Mist

Perhaps it’s my age, but I hate those misty days when the damp seems to get into your bones and makes you ache. I hate those emotional mists too, when you can’t think straight. This is a poem about both.

It drifts around me, like a veil
of dampness, infiltrating bones.
My blood is cold, emotions frail,
I stoop, as aching shoulders groan.

 This fragile shroud beclouds the light;
its cobwebs cling to fog my thought
as brumous layers blur my sight,
ideas corrode ‘til I’m distraught.

 When mizzle sprinkles, like the dew,
it’s lace embraces me with tears,
until a glinting ray shows through
to desiccate persistent fears.

 As hope comes blinking through the haze
my shivers dwindle. Warmth assists
to strengthen weakness — heat ablaze!
Afflictions vanish with the mist.