lost in the mist

the white mist blooms
among the trees in Tir na nOg
sun strikes the larches
golden in horizontal rays

birds flit in the tree
next to the window and
disappear into a nest
in the eaves

a Sunday in November
and I am at my ease

tomorrow I must
pick up my tools
delineate my days
and do worthy things -
another week beckons

and I do not wish
a long, slow sleep
in this realm of dreams

previous poem

next poem