Soft day of mists and silence dark comes early but there are no shadow- forms within our trees, no wolves or bears only owls hoot in the dark and quiet, calling to each other across the gorge the wee birds flit in the branches, eager and busy at the fat, easy pickings amid the light fog and the blood-berries a car passes along the wet road how loud my thoughts - the keening years stretch from me like silent song as I lean-in to the dying daynext poem