Soft Like The Fog Poem by Gert Strydom

Soft like the fog that rises
at the old dam at the fountains,
when early in the morning bloody-red
the sun does catch the eye,
when the first weavers do show their heads,
there is a kind of tranquillity that unexpectedly does hang
and even if a person is broken or hurt

the first impressions of the morning
do come as a full reality,
when nature is viewed in her glory,
to the smallest detail
and somewhere each person does fit into the story of life
like the pieces of a puzzle.