Tim Taylor/United Kingdom

Mountain Mist

The mist clings to me as I walk,

dotting my skin with gems of cold.

To left and right

there should be peaks and plunging valleys,

but I see nothing that I cannot touch.

Upon this open mountainside

the fog has made for me a private space,

a shrine of grass and soil and stones,

things barely noticed in the sun’s harsh stare.

There is a peace, an intimacy

but this is still a cage: my eyes

are trapped within a wall of white.

At least my ears are free: I shout my name

and seconds later, hear it back.

My voice reveals the spires of rock 

submerged with me inside this pool of cloud.