The blue mists
Of evening’s closure
Blurs vistas
To dreams
And wending paths
Petering and smudged
Until the far hills
Clump with tree forms
To places adrift
White vapours
Plump with beginnings
And mystic spaces
In which only the shrill bird call
Punctuates.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
I could drink the mist
With inward
Passage
Of breath
Cool and wholesome
To the lungs,
An air
Weighted moist
And though
Still vapour
No less fluid
Deeply quenching
Organs
In their need
To thirst.
Are we not
All sponges,
Open pored,
In-fluxed
And anointed?
Are we not
Osmosed
In love?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
From the intangible
Dream
Of mist
Subtle in earth’s
Morning breath,
Droplets
Condense
In webs,
Bringing them silver
And whole to the cool,
Tracing threads globular
And mapping invisible
In networks of spheres.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 