A.K. Whitehead
Mist battles
The mist claims the hills for its own.
You and the sun may lay counterclaims,
long for long shadows,
the brittleness of hard grass, for drying
peat;
but the mist is master and captor:
looser of skirmishes yet winner of battles,
holding the high ground
drenched with its running,
running with its precipitation,
moving now inexorably down the slopes,
taking crevasses,
capturing the details of sheer rock faces
where captives are a hidden place
wet, slippery and secreted
within the dank victor’s folds
whose shadowy grey banner
leaves behind
unexpectedly
the deep green of growth.
Page(s) 124
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