“OF MISTS OF MORN”.

I stand loftily, my vantage, a mountain track,
upon the hillside, far above the valley’s mist.
The grayness shrouds the lowlands in attack,
its pallid mantle, dawn’s emergence to resist.

As ghostly galleons, upon some swirling tide,
trees…a phantom fleet at anchor, lying still.
Hidden, save for sparring, silent they reside,
in wait for sunlight, day’s promise, to fulfill.

Breezes, born of dawning, rise soon to persist,
faint zephyrs stirring, high amongst the hills.
Moist grayness awaits, their passage to resist,
a sullen and hardy foe, above the hidden rills.  

Seen by one aloof, as the eagle soaring proud,
somehow detached, far from that scene below.
An eerie panorama, the world above the cloud,
a realm of solitude, where time appears to slow.

A lingering, in cloying reluctance to withdraw,
grey shadowed foam swirls, loathe to fragment.
The patent force of Sol, appears the final straw,
the spectral seas depart, risen silent, in consent…

The earthly tapestry I view, etched now in detail,
remoteness and the mind’s eagle too have flown.
Withdrawn is all that transient loftiness, so frail,
a sense of solitude, by which tranquility is sown…

My vantage lost…thought takes a different tack,
is life within itself, only some valley full of mist?
Where shrouded pathways, deny a turning back,
and dawn’s emergence is needed, merely to exist…

©. Copyright:   Bernard de Silva…May. 18, 08…