The Mist

Leaving the weather shelter of Nan Bield Pass

Fog forms, fastens, closes in, disconnects.

Nothing to see beyond the dew drenched grass

As I too close in to feel protected.

Why the malevolence of mist and moor?

Can’t we still feel the ground beneath our boots?

Feet never lie- trust the curving contours

And let them guide each stride along the route.

Out of the gloom Thornethwaite’s cold stone beacon

Looms, lightless. Dark door to Valhalla’s Hall

Flanked by Nuginn and Muninn Odin’s ravens

Through the grim and the dim they see and hear all.

I eschew the view for the mystery

Set free to enjoy my own reverie.