This is an entirely different poem from the last
Mist (II)
Here comes the mist,
sweeping through the trees,
whitening summer dawn.
Shapes of poplar,
chestnut, a grove of oaks
succumb to its swirl.
I am asked what mist is,
why enveloping, how
I use it in metaphor.
It has rolled away,
white revealing green.
Colour grows into morning.
Mist of memory, from which
the shapes of trees
come back to me,
it clings to secrets
till dawn's slant sun
clothes them in roselight
- each branch, every tree -
a drifting boundary
beyond whose blind I see.
Sally Evans
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