The Mist Does Drape The Distant Hill Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

The mist does drape the distant hill
And grips the bleak and ghostly skies,
With silence for the morning still
Across the field and meadow lies.

For clinging to the darkness there
A cloak is cast upon the view,
Behind the trees so stark and bare
The sun is slowly breaking through.

The air is chill upon this day
November now begins to bite,
The swallows too long flown away
That once did bring me such delight.

The path ahead is so unclear
As features now are lost to me,
For all that I once held so dear
Lies hidden in the mist I see.

I walk across the lowly field
Where frost has settled on the grass,
And pray the spring again would yield
Its warmth to melt this frozen glass.

So once again the stream could flow
Across the rich and emerald land,
Now vieled in white and thus could show
The hill within the distance stand.