Above The Mist

Here in the valley where the river runs through, Mist may swirl over houses and factories during Mild winter months. You rise up above the valley And you can see where the mist wanders. Either side of the river a path threads its way For cyclists and walkers alike with several walk Bridges that cross the river. Either side of which Trees line the banks, some at crazy angles. The river flows fast at times of heavy rain carrying Trees and their branches towards the sea three Miles away, along with plastic bottles and fast-food Wrappers chucked in by people in a hurry. It is along these paths that I wander for miles during Dry days. When Clara was alive it didn't matter if We got wet, but she is now sniffing trees and posts In a doggy heaven, so I try and keep dryish. We have a hill, a small 600 odd metre hill, covered In pine, aspen, alder and oak as well as many silver Birch trees where magpies, bluebirds, robins and Sparrows chat about the weather and busy squirrels. A rough stone and earth paths winds wearily to the Summit that is now guarded by phone masts. Over The decades nature has cut rain furrows into the Steep winding paths by the amount of rain we get. At the summit, above the mist, you have a view of the Docks and sandy bay that sweeps through an arc for Six or seven kilometres. You look at the horizon beyond Vision where occasional ships may be seen sailing From here to there lost in their own thoughts, having Waved goodbye to one safe port to be welcomed at Another somewhere on the distant horizon where Hooded men in hi-vi jackets will unload their cargos. At the summit you can gather scattered thoughts, or like me, bring a camping stove and have a small meal. There is nothing higher, only the sky smiling down on Sunny days, or laughing at you during a heavy shower. Then you scramble down looking for even ground, but There is none. Heading downwards the magpies and crows stare in wonder at the foolish humans that can't Fly. They are the cleaver ones as they squark in laughter.