The mist of the morning clings to
thick air with a brace of cold –
beautiful, distant, and fleeting –
hanging beyond fingers that yearn,
outstretched, for a delicate touch
from the borrowed light behind.
Short colours curl through shadows
and unwrap the early of day,
calm in the damp silence,
tangling with a sullen world,
as the skies weep with
powdered jewels on pale edifice,
poised just so, with bright grace,
that a lost soul might look, and dream.