Gossamer Garlands

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The sun-dipped isle was suddenly a sheep
Lost and stupid, a dense wet tremulous fleece.
~George Mackay Brown “Fog” from The Weather Bestiary

 

 

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When I was young, fog felt oppressive,
as mournful as the fog horns sounding continually in the nearby bay.
Now in sixty years later
I appreciate fog for slowing me down
when life compels me to rush too fast.
When forced to take time,
I begin to notice what I missed before:
clouds descend to hug and kiss the ground
to bejewel everything they touch.
The dead and dying
become glorious in subtle beauty,
the farm all gossamer garland and transparent pearls.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Gossamer Garlands

  1. The fog,
    God’s scrim, is in,
    graying: horizon, islands, boats, rocks, and shrubbed bank
    into memory
    and mystery,
    reminding me
    to see with the eyes of my heart.

    Liked by 2 people

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