Croham Hurst in the Mist
Formless and inviolate,
bright shadow cloaks the hillside,
stealing all distance and direction,
concealing traps – the exposed root, the hidden pool.
Eyes suffused with light but seeing nothing
allow mind to concoct nameless horrors
just beyond the veil.
Enough of fairy tales:
there is a spectral beauty
in this open but secluded place
screened from the buzz of human busyness.
The land, the trees reveal themselves by inches:
outstretched hands and probing footsteps map
the pure topography of space.
First published on The Poetry Village