The Mist Poem by Gert Strydom

Here in Springs the mist hangs in the mornings
almost like the Cape’s winter rain
that draws a grey cloak over almost every thing.

At sunrise the street lamps glow amber
and here and there a light is on in a house
and I hear a car, hooting goodbye.

When I walk on the grass
the water rises through my shoes
and leaves tracks along the driveway.

Flowers in colours of ruby red,
shades of pink to purple
and pure white are stringed in between the leaves

and as if every thing is fresh and new
water runs like drops of dew
down from the leaves.

The mist closes every thing off,
surrounds things, into an own world
where visibility is at times
just meters far.

Still the missing
that I have of you
is something with a greater intensity,

no sun early in the morning
burns away,
the being away that divides us.

There’s nothing clearing up this missing
but to talk with you,
better still to have you here.