Fog

The fog creeps low, a ghostly tide,
That veils the world in silver gray,
With whispers soft it swathes the land,
In quiet dance of end-of-day.

Each tree, a spectre in the mist,
The path obscured, the air grows cold,
A haunting silence blankets all,
As stories of the night unfold.

Beyond the veil the stars await,
As flickers of the daylight fade,
In dusky shades, a realm of dreams,
The fog conceals, then softly fades.

• EJ Pratt