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





Chill winds and autumn mists

Scour me clean

Remove heldfast past

Start again


Become supplicant to skies

Searching for benediction




Seeking purification

Without ceremony

Intervention not required

My ear

Close enough to ground



David Trudel   ©  2012




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