Travelling down the lanes,
Passing fields and trees
Existing in memories:
Fog-shrouded, invisible
To sight. There is no world
Outside this small bubble
In which I make my way.

It was not always so.
Leaving home this morning
Orion’s stars shone bright;
The Hunter watched over
As my journey began.
The clear skies boded well
For an easy passage.

But before the first mile
Had passed beneath my feet
Misty tendrils began
To creep across the road,
Harbingers of the shroud
That soon would wind the land
In damp opalescence.

I love the intimate
Smallness, my senses’ sphere
Reduced to human scale.
Nothing can be perceived
Beyond: I am alone
In this immaculate,
Intangible softness.