The Mist’s Cry
 
Mist swirls through the garden as if a mystical fire has started somewhere deep in the bowels of the earth, a delicate breath seeping from a fierce belly
She emerges gracefully around corners, between branches, checking if it is safe to continue, leaving tear-like droplets as she goes
She weeps, gently caressing newly opened buds, as a mother’s lips delicately kiss the forehead of her child so as not to disturb the sleeping miracle 
She gathers pace swirling faster, holding back the urge to scream and evaporate before her job is done
Her path criss-crosses from one side of the garden to the other - left, right, back and forth
A message to onlookers perhaps, one they struggle to decipher
Most overlook the tangled lines, seeing only the inconvenience, damp seeping into bones causing shivers, aches and pains
For many the haze simply creates a barrier, making it difficult for them to move forward in the metal boxes that protect them from the mist
She deadens sound too, muffling footsteps and voices, the daily barrage of noise that when quietened adds to the mystery of a dawn that only a few are fortunate to see
 
Yet nature is always there, slowly going about her business, grateful for the moisture - it doesn’t rain much here
Plants luxuriate in their morning bath, their colours shining with renewed vigour
Joyful birds hop to and fro, stamping on the ground to fool bugs to the surface to feed hungry mouths back at their nests
Later bees will rush to recently opened blooms, drinking their fill while the damp helps fallen leaves complete their transformation and nourish the soil once more
If we’re lucky a once-in-a-lifetime cactus bloom will show her beautiful face in the shadowy light
She gifts it to us even if no one is looking
 
Morning prayers ring out, this time barely audible due to the fog, inviting all faiths to cherish what surrounds them
Be kind to our mother; without her we are nothing
 
Today, as every day, there is another call that the Earth shouts through eyes blurred by the mist’s morning tears:
Awaken from your slumber and reconnect!
 
The sun’s slow rise heats the ground, warming roots and encouraging shoots to force their way through hardened ground to welcome the new dawn
 
Yet with the sun the messenger begins to die
She hasn’t much time left for her fading wings to whisper their lesson to ears that do not wish to listen
Gathering pace, she darts here and there, seeking higher ground, on an island where there is none, just to linger a little longer
 
Buildings swirling with morning dew find new purpose for her
Though there are few plants that high, early risers walk through low hanging clouds capturing the wonder of magical views
Yet there is little curiosity about their creator
 
For the observant, she leaves clues about the job she has been doing through the dawn’s short hours – a dark patch on tiles, a lone bauble of water poised to drop on a passing head, a whirl of moisture dampening sofa cushions, tiny spider’s webs glistening with dew between balcony plants
 
But she needs to be clean to do her task properly each morning as she emerges from the overnight cooling of this tiny land
Pollution makes her linger more than necessary, no longer pure, poisoning lungs, stunting growth, slowly killing all that her ethereal gown caresses
Tranquil air forces her to loiter, brushing against surfaces she wasn’t meant to feed
Leaving blotches here and there, the tell-tale signs that she was present to those about to awaken from their dreams
 
The sun inches higher
The last wisps of her robe disappear as sleepy heads stir, grab coffee and fly out the door into their metal boxes, cursing the remnants of the mist’s frock that slows their progress once more
 
And she is gone.
 
© Sarah Clarke 9 January 2021