Scotch Mist

We called it scotch mist

Lightly falling rain

On dimlit days

Pewtered skies leaking wisps of fog

Dampening forest symphonies

 

Chillwinds crawl puckeringly slow

Up arms

Over shoulders

Settling with icethuds

Beneath my clothes

Screaming me into now

Cathartic

Cleansing

Redeeming

 

Chill winds and autumn mists

Scour me clean

Remove heldfast past

Start again

 

Become supplicant to skies

Searching for benediction

Hope

Completion

 

Seeking purification

Without ceremony

Intervention not required

My ear

Close enough to ground

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2012

 

 

 

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